


The Unexpected Is Always Upon Us

by OnForeboding



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dogs, Dogs making everything better, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, I will tag as I go along, Kinda?, M/M, Meet-Cute, Slow Burn, because Im not entirely sure where this is going tbh, because i am weak, london setting, there is now a cat too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-04 16:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6666469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnForeboding/pseuds/OnForeboding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Charitably... I think... sometimes, perhaps, one must change or die.<em></em></em><br/>The Wake, Sandman, Neil Gaiman</p><p> <br/>The Surprisingly Angsty Dog Walker AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guess the carpet weren't rolled out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the meet-cute

Flint is grieving, he knows that. He’s been told countless times. It’s grief. It’s grief. It’s _just_ grief.

Weren’t there supposed to be stages? Even the platitudes failed him. He’d take the bullshit, if it’d only help. (No, he wouldn’t. He doesn’t want help. He wants to go back in time.) Guess no one ever said how long these phases were meant to last. Surely not this long. He can feel the world breathing down his neck. Move on. (He can’t. He won’t.) How long is it supposed to take?

It was grief that stained his awakening every morning. It was grief that dulled the taste of his breakfast bagel and his coffee. It was grief who had him stare at the indigo cotton suits in his closet for ten minutes, before putting whichever on. It was grief that weakened his knees when walking over to the Tube.

But the memory of Thomas egged him on. Got him out of bed. Into a shower. Out of the house. Into his ridiculously tiny and old office.

How could two things so intrinsically connected have such opposite effects on him?

 

When Flint got to the office, Mr Gates was already there, as per usual. His tortoise shell glasses hanging dangerously low on his nose while he stared at the computer with a deep frown.

“Any urgent messages?” Flint asked, hanging his overcoat.

“Mrs. Grey has resumed her relentless calling.”

Flint closed his eyes and sighed. “I’ll talk to her today. You can put her through next time she calls.”

“You’re not going to make that poor woman cry again, are you? I understand she’s… persistent, but you must remember she lost her son too. So try and—“

“I said I’ll do it.”

Mr. Gates gave a sceptical grunt. He collected a few Post-it notes and handed them over.

“Hal, I’ve told you to e-mail me the messages, instead of handing me a Staples warehouse worth of Post-its.”

Mr. Gates only grunted again and shoved a few more at him. Flint rolled his eyes but closed his fist around them and disappeared into his office.

There was a newly organised evidence bundle on top of his desk. He could see the multi colored Post-it notes sticking out from in-between the tall stack of sheets. Dutiful Billy. If people knew what their solicitors actually did all day, they'd have a fucking fit. Flint was long past the point in his career where the notion of micromanaging seemed like the only way to ensure the results he wanted. Back then he'd never dream of saying so, but thank fucking God for delegating. Ever since Billy had joined the firm, the whole process of not only this particular case but all others had been streamlined.

He opened the manilla folder and flipped through some of the notes made by his Junior Solicitor. Flint could see that Billy was worrying at the same thread he was. So it wasn't just him, then.

For weeks, now, Flint hadn’t been able to shake this feeling of impending discovery. It was driving him mad, like some invisible itch he couldn't scratch. What was it? If he could just get a handle on where to pull to make it all unravel...

He was startled out of his trance by his mobile ringing. He hated that blasted noise. Why hadn't he changed the damn thing yet? (He knew why.) And who the fuck was calling him at 9am? His screen displayed the name "Miranda". He rolled his eyes but gave a small smile and pressed 'answer'.  

"What?"

"Well, good morning to you too, James," Miranda replied on the other end. "I'm coming over for dinner tonight. And you are making me Coq au Vin."

"Not tonight."

Miranda sighed. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Are you still upset with me?"

"Don't be daft. I wasn't upset with you in the first place, and you know it." He took a deep breath and fiddled with the corners of a page. "Just... not tonight, okay?"

"Okay, darling." Miranda's tone was one of resignation but understanding. Both fitting adjectives to describe their entire relationship. "But this week. Promise," she said.

"I promise." And he meant it too. He always meant his promises to her.

 

¥¥¥

 

Flint twisted his key on the lock and was immediately greeted by the familiar pattering on wooden floorboards that announced Neptune's arrival. He was only halfway in the door before the Husky leaped onto him, paws firmly planted on his chest.

It was the one habit Flint hadn't managed to train out of him. Well, hadn't been allowed to. Thomas had insisted this was the whole point of having a dog—to be greeted daily by unabashed adoration. To be welcomed home as the greatest hero that ever lived. Flint had offered that he thought that’s what he was there for. Thomas had replied that, unlike him, the dog was happy to see him _every_ day.

And now his woolly scarf was covered in dirt from the garden.

He grabbed Neptune's head and rubbed his fur. "Have you been digging again?" He inspected one of the paws. What should be pristine white fur was covered in humid dark brown flakes. "You are in serious need of a manicure."

Neptune whuffed on his face, seemingly agreeing and dropped to the floor.

"I hope you stayed out of mommy's rose bushes or you won’t be seeing ham for a while," he added. Last time Miranda had been livid. 

Avoiding the dirt on the floor, he made his way to the bedroom.

Neptune, as always, followed.

 

Shower foregone, Tesco's ready-meal eaten, he sunk down on the sofa with a glass of scotch. Neptune took his habitual spot and lay on the floor by his feet, snout resting comfortably atop his front legs.

He turned on the TV and flicked through the million channels. Cooking show. Antique show. Gardening. Sewing Bee. Property. Cooking. Oh God, not that Jamie Oliver twat. More gardening. Was Downton Abbey on today? No. BBC News, then. He pulled out his laptop and started going through the newest evidence bundle.

A few hours and scotches in, he gave up on his notes. He took off his glasses and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, taking a deep breath that turned into a yawn. Neptune looked on, curious about the sudden movements.

"Up," Flint commanded, with the accompanying curt arm gesture.

Neptune hopped onto the couch gracefully. Flint scratched behind his ears.

"I've been neglecting you haven't I, boy?" Saying it out loud elicited a pang of guilt. "Just because I can't take care of myself... doesn't mean I shouldn't take care of you."

He petted the dog's head heavily and repeatedly. A comforting gesture meant to stop the growing ache in his chest. Neptune nuzzled his neck and the sob welling up in Flint's throat turned into an unexpected laugh.

"I know you forgive me too." He turned his attention back to his laptop, logging onto the Dapper Dog website. "Let's get you a proper gent’s grooming, shall we?"

 

¥¥¥

 

At the front desk, Silver was busy pretending to work when the little bell on their door rang.

He was halfway to his best fake smile when he saw a brown blur heading straight for the door.

"Peanut!" Silver called out.

A man stepped into the shop and his lower legs immediately collided with the small dog.

Silver scrambled from behind the counter. "Peanut, get back here!" he repeated urgently, trying in vain to catch his overexcited dog, who was now attempting to get to the large Husky behind the man.

The tiny light brown dog wasn't the least bit interested in what Silver had to say and started to bark up a storm. Well, that was Peanut banned from the shop. Again.

"Stop!"

Both Silver and Peanut immediately stopped in their tracks and looked up at the source of the authoritarian command. The tall red-headed man leaned down quickly and picked up Peanut under his belly. He held him out to Silver. Peanut just stood there, legs dangling and tongue lolling.

Silver straightened back up. He smiled apologetically and took the dog, pressing him up against his chest. "I'm so sorry. He's... well, he's an idiot."

The man gave him a look that held a poorly concealed remark at exactly who he thought the idiot in this situation was. He was hot, too. Peanut licked Silver’s face. _Great._

"I'm sorry, sir, please come in." Silver stole a quick glance at the big clock in the far wall. Shit, was that the time? This must be the noon appointment.

He went to stand behind the counter, Peanut safely imprisoned between his arms.

The man finally managed to walk into the shop, his gorgeous Siberian Husky behind him on a leash, impressively calm and obedient.

Wait, Silver knew him. "Neptune! It's been a while."

The husky's ears prickled at his name. The man raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, I remember all the dogs that I've worked on. I'm one of the groomers, actually. Not usually behind the counter," Silver offered, as if that explained what had just happened.

Today was one of those days where he got stuck covering a shift. Silver opened up the large red planner on the counter.

"Ok, so Mr. Flint with Neptune. VIP session! Lucky boy. Great! Pick up is at 5pm, as usual,” Silver informed, wearing his brightest smile.

"Thank you," the man said, reaching for his wallet.

So that was his normal voice.

Mr. Flint pulled out his card and handed it over. Silver prepared the terminal and handed it back. The always-awkward payment processing pause gave Silver some time to finally look the man over.

In customary English fashion, the man was busying himself looking at everything except Silver. He was dressed in a well-tailored blue suit that accentuated his broad chest and red hair. His ear-length hair and goatee were groomed to perfection. A City boy, probably. Of course—why else would Silver be attracted to him? What was it with him and rich pricks? Well, apart from the money.

Peanut chose this interval to wiggle his way out of Silver’s grasp and onto the counter.

Mr Flint turned his attention onto the tiny dog. “Is he yours?” He petted Peanut, who gleefully scooched closer to him.  

“I wish I could say ‘no’. Yeah, he’s all mine.” Silver made quick work of the myriad of receipts he needed to issue while he spoke.

“What breed is he?” Mr. Flint took the receipts.

Silver snorted. “No clue. If I had to guess I’d say he’s mostly Jack Russell? Except for his fur, obviously.”

Peanut tried to bite onto the man’s cufflinks.

“Well, whatever it is, it needs training,” he said, retracting his hand.

Silver was unexpectedly offended on Peanut’s behalf. “Don’t we all?” he replied in a lower tone. He finished off with a raised eyebrow and a dazzling smile.

Mr. Flint frowned slightly, but the pink hue on his cheeks was unmistakable.

Interesting.  

Silver held his green eyes for a few seconds. The flash of vulnerability gone, the other man extended Neptune’s leash toward Silver.

“Well, you’re all set here! Like I said, 5pm,” Silver said, rounding up the counter to collect the Husky. “And don’t worry, I won’t let Peanut’s behaviour rub off too much on Neptune.”

Mr. Flint gave him a strange look and strode out of the shop.

Silver chuckled. It was almost too easy sometimes. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from the song Sheila by Jamie T


	2. And if you could then you know you would

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with nothing but bad ideas

Flint flew across town, foregoing the Tube after a few stops and opting for a cab.

The deposition of the new witnesses had taken a lot longer than he had anticipated. And with Billy now on holiday, there was no one to take over for him. He looked at his watch. How was it 7pm already? Fuck.

As soon as the cab pulled up to the Dapper Dog, he slipped the driver a twenty pound note and got out. The cold crisp air of night reinvigorated him and he turned up the collar on his overcoat. Trying for as much dignity as possible, he hurried towards the door. He pushed but it was locked. He was about to knock on the glass pane when he noticed movement inside.

He could see Neptune in an animated tug of war with the young man from earlier. The man was sitting on the floor, legs splayed wide. His long brown curls bounced as he pulled at the toy trapped in Neptune's mouth. Neptune was never like this, not with strangers. The small, unruly dog from earlier ran around them, jumping up and down. The man succeeded in pulling the toy out of Neptune's mouth but fell back with the momentum. Both dogs were immediately upon him, the small dog licking his face and Neptune diving for the toy. Flint could hear the man laughing. He couldn't stop watching; it was mesmerising. It was such a demonstration of unbridled joy it made Flint’s chest constrict with nostalgia. He hadn’t truly laughed in years (that felt like centuries).

A naturally mercurial child raised in a sombre British household, he’d always had an inclination toward melancholy. The opposite of that had been a rage that burned like hot irons behind his eyes and his ribcage and scared him as much as it exhilarated him. Joy had mostly felt foreign, and the feeling sometimes drove him to fits of anxiety and introspection.

After some years, he’d been convinced that this dark low simmering of sorts was just his natural state. Until he’d met joy itself in the form of Miranda and Thomas. They’d brought so much light into his grey life, it had illuminated all the dark corners of his heart. He’d felt it all the time, then. Got used to it, complacent with it. Forgot to cherish it as much as before. And then it got snatched away. And he was left with his melancholy and ire, deeper and hotter than ever before.

There was a shriek as Neptune decided to forgo the toy in favour of also licking the man’s face.  

Despite himself, Flint smiled. He could only see a pair of arms around Neptune’s head now, fingers sunk into the black and white fur. Reluctantly, he knocked on the window pane.

The noise startled the occupants out of their reverie and they all turned to look his way. The small dog started barking, and the man got up, discreetly cleaning his face and brushing off his jeans. The dogs followed him as he came and unlocked the door to let Flint in.

"I'm terribly sorry," Flint said, using his arms to block Neptune's attempt at jumping on his chest, fluffy tail like a weathervane in a storm. "Sit," he commanded.

The Husky swiftly obeyed.

"Bloody hell, even I feel like sitting," Silver said, in a low voice.

Flint arched an eyebrow but felt his ears burning. The yapping of the other dog echoed around the small shop. Had he heard that right? The cheeky smile on the young man's face and the glint in his vividly blue eyes was answer enough.  Flint schooled his face into aloofness.

"How much extra do I owe you?" he asked, holding onto Neptune's collar.

"Oh, nothing! Don't be silly."

Silly. How old was this bloke?

"It was a pleasure, wasn't it, Neptune?" He patted Neptune on the head. The Husky licked his hand.

Okay, what was up with Neptune?

"What did you feed him?" Flint asked, eyes narrowed.

"Oh, the usual brand you buy from us." He smiled broadly, like Flint hadn't just accused him of something. "My name is John Silver, by the way.”  He smiled again and extended the hand Neptune hadn't licked.

Flint shook it. He had very warm hands. The yapping finally stopped. "Flint. Do you get overtime?"

Silver snorted.

"I’m two hours late; I owe you something. Please, I insist. How much do you make an hour?" Flint reached inside his coat for the wallet.

Silver’s smile suddenly turned tight.

Bugger.

"It's fine, really. I do need to get going though. Peanut is getting rowdy. And I still have to close up shop so..."

"Of course, I'm sorry. I've kept you long enough," Flint added hastily. But then he just stood there, staring. "I need his leash," he suddenly remembered.

"Right!" Silver said, hurrying to the counter.

Instead of rounding it, Silver used his surprisingly toned arms to push off the counter and bend over it to reach behind it.

Flint‘s eyebrows shot up. Those jeans were awfully tight. He could see his blue Calvin Klein underwear too, well above peeking over the trouser waistline. (Were belts not a thing anymore?) It showed off the beginning of the smooth curve of his bottom and Flint was assaulted by the image of biting into it. He blinked rapidly, willing it away.

After what frankly felt like longer-than-necessary upside-down rummaging, Silver returned with the leash and handed it over.

Flint felt Neptune shift under his hand in the other man's direction.

"Do you walk dogs?" Flint blurted out. What was he doing?

Silver smiled, a tad less enthusiastic than before. "Yes, the shop has a dog walking service. You can book it on our website—"

"I mean you, specifically."

Silver narrowed his eyes, a smirk crossing his lips. "Well, no. I’m a groomer. I'm the one you have to thank for Neptune's lush look."

Flint looked at his dog. He hadn't even noticed. With the hand loosely holding the collar, he grabbed a handful of fur. It was as soft as cashmere and it amplified Flint’s already heightened senses.

"But Anne is great! She's actua—"

"No," Flint interrupted.

Silver closed his mouth abruptly.

"Sorry, I mean... Neptune doesn't take to people easily," Flint explained. There was mirth in the other man's eyes. Was he imagining the constant smirk dancing around Silver's pink lips? "He seems to genuinely like you. And he's used to going to Hyde Park during the day but the —” (people) “— person who took him can't do it anymore."

Silver put his hands in his pockets, affecting an air of indecision.

Flint's patience was about to run out. Neptune could learn how to deal with life's fucking disappointments and that was that. ‘Leave it to Thomas to pick the prickliest pup’, Miranda had said, throwing a knowing smile Flint’s way.

"It'll be fifty pounds a week, cash. If you're interested, you have my details," Flint stated, busying himself putting the leash back on Neptune. He was halfway out the door already when Silver spoke.

"Just like that? I could be a serial killer, for all you know."

He finally returned his gaze back to Silver, who looked on expectantly. Flint snorted and walked out of the shop with Neptune.

 

¥¥¥

 

Silver climbed the four miserable flights of stairs that led to his flat. Had that elevator ever worked for longer than a week for as long as he lived here? Of course, it was double the effort holding Peanut, the dog that couldn't climb stairs. For some reason he was terrified of them. And after many failed attempts at teaching him the basic principle of it, Silver had taken pity on both of them and given up.

Despite the late return home, Silver was glad he'd decided to stay.

When five o’clock had come and gone everyone got antsy about what to do with the huge leftover Husky. They had the space and the cages but legally they weren't allowed to keep animals on the premises overnight. That meant someone had to stay behind and wait.

Logan was halfway out the door before the subject was even broached, waving everyone goodbye. Normally, Silver would've beaten him to the punch by a wide margin but not today. Today staying promised more than leaving.

When he'd volunteered everyone had looked at him like he'd just informed them he was about to become a pirate. Silver was fairly certain at least a few of them (Anne) were convinced he was going to rob the place. But there's nothing that an end-of-workday crowd won't do to get home, so everyone welcomed the suggestion.

He wasn't expecting to have to wait two hours though. Rich people were such pricks.

But the outcome of the encounter had made up for it. Now he could worm his way into his house and subsequently his pants and his wallet. Silver felt a shiver of excitement and couldn't help a smile.

Blowing through the curls sticking to his forehead, he jiggled his key until the lock gave. On his left arm, Peanut squirmed frantically; Silver let him go and he sprinted inside. No manners.

"Good God, who the fuck raised you?" he muttered, closing the door. Not two steps inside their too tight hallway he nearly tripped over a pair of black army boots. Fucking Jack. He kicked them out of the way.

"Max?" he called out, when he passed the first door on the left.

" _Oui_!"

As soon as he opened the door, Peanut came scrambling from the kitchen.

Max was lying on her bed, laptop on her thighs. She smiled at him.

"So, uh... how does one become an escort without actually becoming one?"

Her eyes widened. " _Chéri_ , you decided to join the agency? We have much to discuss. Come, come. Sit, sit." She patted her floral print duvet.

Silver laughed, leaning against the doorway. "No. I just... Well, I might have an interesting... prospect on my hands."

Peanut jumped on top of the bed. Must've thought the invitation was for him. Forget stairs, but beds? No problem! Shady little fucker.

Max shooed him back onto the floor. "Do tell," she said, closing the lid on her laptop.

Silver crossed his arms. "Well, there's this client at the shop. He wants me to walk his dog."

Max barely contained her snort.

Silver shot her an amused look. "Not a euphemism. Literally. Like Anne," he explained.

The mention of the name seemed to instantly sober her up. Silver wasn't interested in going further than that, though.

"But it's on the side. I mean, I could do it during my lunch time, when I walk Peanut. And squeezing an extra hour for lunch out of Randall just for the heck of it will be easy," he continued.

"Unless the dog walking business has suffered a dramatic change I am unaware of, it hardly seems like you will be joining the Fortune 500 any time soon," Max said.

"He lives in Paddington," Silver informed, triumphantly. Before Max could speak he raised his indicator at her. "Ah-ah and not the 'good part' either. The ' _really_ good part'." God bless Google Earth.

Max turned her head his way further, eyebrows raised. She slid the laptop off her legs. Now he had her.

"Not the 'great part' then?" she teased, coquettish.

"Yes, I hold my breath every day for when a peer of the Realm, will walk in the shop. Or Helen Mirren," he sneered.

Max laughed silently.

Silver finally sat on the bed, facing her. "The important part is that this 'walk my dog' thing felt a lot like flirting. The poorest attempt at flirting in history, sure, but flirting, nevertheless."

Max narrowed her eyes at him. "So much enthusiasm... What does this gentleman look like?"

Silver gave her the widest smile he could muster. Max rolled her eyes upwards, shaking her head and smiling.

"Bottom line is, 'bottom' being the operative word here, if I play my cards right he could be my meal ticket for a while."

Max remained silent for a beat longer than necessary. Silver tried not to let her lack of enthusiasm dampen his own.

"And this is better than what I do how?"

Silver could hear the touch of spite underneath Max's mocking tone. He leaned back on the bed and laid his head across her legs, making sure his curls fanned out over her thighs. Predictably, Max started to run her fingers through them.

"Never said it was," he offered. "I just don't see the point in it, really. Putting up with all those people. Sounds like a lot of work. I'd rather put up with just one, thank you very much." He turned to smile at her.

Max combed back the curls near his forehead. "I worry for you, _mon petit_. The men, the women, the drugs, the schemes... Some day you will lose track of all these plates you have spinning above your head. And it will all come crashing down on you."

Silver swallowed hard but shrugged as quickly. "It's just some fun, Max. Don't be so dramatic."

Max made a derisive sound but kept up the scalp massage. John closed his eyes and let visions of a sunny and warm Paddington house and James Flint fill his mind.

 

¥¥¥

 

Flint awoke with a gasp. No. He closed his eyes again, even as the pain of realisation started settling in his chest. He could go back. He could carry on. (Come back to me, please.) He tried willing himself back to sleep. If he went back to sleep he could forget. He could remember. He let out a deep shaky sigh and ran his hands through his hair. (Please, don't leave me.) The happy warmth and exhilaration in his chest started to quickly erode under the strain of reality.

The dreams had become less and less frequent. The steady decline felt like forgetting. He lived in terror of the day when the only possible avenue to meet Thomas would be snatched from him. But to wake up to renewed loss... it was beyond pain. It was being told for the first time that he was gone. It was Prometheus on the promontory, made whole again only to have his flesh torn from him once more. Every return with an imprint of the warmth of Thomas' hand or lips on his skin was torture. He wished the dreams gone forever or present every day.

He turned on his side and curled in on himself, covering his face with both hands and breathing harshly. His trapped hot breath was always oddly comforting. Flint hated the cold. He'd never tell her, but he dearly missed the days when Miranda slept with him.

To find himself alone in the dark was utter misery. No life beside him to remind him that death had not yet come for him. (Take me with you.) No one to turn to for comfort but himself.

Another deep breath. He wrangled his hands on top of his stomach; tried to resist the urge to reach for the book. To reach for him.

At some point it'd become a kind of ritual. A compulsion. A coping mechanism. A prayer. Semantics. He'd fucking slept with the damn thing, for goodness sake.

The tears finally crested over his eyes. He closed them and let himself cry. (How could you leave me here with myself?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the non-locals Paddington is a very affluent area in London. 
> 
> All my love to [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com), my beta and editor. She keeps me from making a fool of myself.
> 
> Chapter title from Misery Business by Paramore
> 
> I'm going to try to update every week, so let's do this! It's all very exciting! (first time fic publisher. Can you tell? XD)


	3. Picking on me like a dinner plate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the goddess

Silver blew over his mug of tea, appraising his surroundings.

The kitchen was modern. All black and white furnishings, sleek and light-refracting. The uncomfortable white plastic stool on which he was sitting made him feel like a candle propped on a candle stick. In front of him, on top of the black marble counter, lay the sheet of paper with Flint’s instructions.

Apparently he wasn’t allowed anywhere but the kitchen and the garden. Fat chance. It further warned that if he felt so inclined to wander, he’d find all doors in the house locked. Slight hiccup but, if he knew Victorian houses’ doors, one of them was bound to give. He’d try that later. First day, no use in risking trouble already. Although he should consider negotiating the bathroom. A man has to piss!

He took a sip of the milky drink. Hot hot hot. But very tasty. Well, score one for Mr. Flint; he knew what a good cuppa was. He should pocket some tea bags before leaving.

He looked into the garden through the glass kitchen door. Neptune and Peanut were still running around. Silver smiled. It was silly, but he couldn’t get enough of the contrast between the two. Neptune such a tall, lupine figure, almost regal in nature. And stubby Peanut. Who by the looks of it was delirious with the new surroundings, sniffing and investigating all over the place. Neptune hovered around him, tail shaking lazily, playing the good host. Actually, that reminded him of the next item on that list: under no circumstances were the rose bushes to be harmed by either dog. Well, if Neptune hadn’t learned not to get into the roses after living here for god knows how long with a drill sergeant, Silver certainly wasn’t going to manage to keep him from them now. Thankfully, Peanut wasn’t a digger; too much work.

Silver hopped off the stool and set about peeking into the rest of the cupboards. He grabbed an amount of tea bags he deemed unnoticeable and some dog treats for Peanut and stuffed them in his messenger bag. He then headed for the tall black fridge and opened it. That was a _lot_ of ready meals. Someone didn’t like cooking. Odd, given the double oven, the fancy hob and the overabundance of cooking equipment everywhere - some of which Silver had never seen, nor did he have any idea what they were for. Hey, maybe Flint kept sweaters in his oven like Carrie. He shook his head. Fuck Jack for making him watch that stupid show. Fuck him with a rusty fork. He couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up when he realised the irony of trying to snatch his very own Mr. Big. He picked a few red grapes and ate them, enjoying the contrast of the cold juice on his tongue and down his throat after the scalding tea. Speaking of nice grapes, there had to be wine somewhere around here, surely…

There was the distant noise of keys in a lock. Oh shit, he’d come to check up on him. Silver closed the fridge door as silently as he managed and had to hold onto the mug with both hands when he turned around, as Neptune ran past and nearly tripped him. He scanned the room, holding the tea mug like a bomb before scrambling toward the garden and chucking the hot liquid over the grass, splashing Peanut, who cowered in fear. Silver then shoved the mug in the closest bush. He stuffed both hands in his jeans’ back pockets and strived for casual.

“Hello?” said a female voice from the kitchen. Silver turned around, less panicked and more confused.  

A dark haired woman in white trousers walked toward the kitchen, Neptune by her side.

“Hello,” Silver replied, offering a small wave and a sheepish smile. He’d have thought Mr. Flint might’ve mentioned his fucking wife. Figures.

The woman came through the garden door, Neptune giving way for her. Definitely the lady of the house. Bollocks.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Silver,” she greeted, a warm smile adorning her red lips. She wore white trousers, wide but above the calf, with a large, bucolic daisy and poppy pattern, and a black shirt. They looked lush and well-made; expensive. It was a strange style but very fitting and exquisite on her.

Silver cleared his throat. “Indeed,” he said with a warm smile. “And you are something Mr. Flint forgot to mention in his long list of demands.” He pulled the folded list out of his back pocket.

“My name is Miranda.” She stepped closer and extended her hand. “Lovely to meet you.”

Silver nearly had the urge to kiss the hand instead of shaking it. Her hands were very soft.

She must’ve been in her early forties, but Silver could tell she was one of those women who kept their grace in age, simply shedding their youthfulness for a more maternal visage while remaining equally alluring. Silver imagined she’d always been this beautiful; beauty clung to her like an aura, beyond skin-deep. The kind of woman Silver occasionally found himself dangerously attracted to, for reasons he’d rather not look at too closely.

Miranda’s big brown eyes shifted and she laughed silently. “And who is that ball of unending enthusiasm?”

Silver turned around to see Peanut belly up, rubbing his back all over the spot where most of the tea had landed. Silver closed his eyes and bit his lips together. Why? WHY?

He turned back to Miranda. “Never seen it before in my life. Was not there last I looked,” he said, in a mock serious tone. He gave her one of his best boyish, self-deprecating smiles and pushed his hands back into his back pockets. He couldn’t help it. She was too enticing, and he was too foolish.

Miranda chuckled. “Really? I have it from a very reliable source you had a small companion as charming as you...”

Silver glanced back again. Peanut was now dragging his butt on the grass.

“Have to say, Mr. Flint is a harsh judge of character,” Silver said. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Oh, James doesn’t know I’m here,” she clarified, looking Silver over. “Neptune will be getting agitated soon,” she pressed on, before Silver could get another question in. “I’m the one that used to walk him every day, you see. He sees me, and thinks ‘park’.” She petted Neptune’s head.   

Ex-wife, then. Silver’s money was on divorce due to her husband's rampant homosexuality.

“Time is such a precious gift. It’s always getting taken away, though. By obligations, responsibilities, choices…” Silver offered.

She smiled placidly. “Indeed.”

Ok, let’s try that differently. “I bet he misses you,” Silver said, petting the husky. “Neptune, I mean.”

Miranda tilted her head and smirked, giving him a long look with her intelligent eyes. Silver felt caught out and naked, all his bravado nowhere to be found. Against his own will, he swallowed hard.

She turned back into the kitchen and, just like that, the spell was over. “Would you like some tea, before venturing into the park with your charges?” she offered.

The kettle!

Well, fuck.

 

¥¥¥

 

At the dinner table, Flint held his breath expectantly as Miranda took the first bite of the wine-infused chicken. She smiled while chewing and Flint relaxed. There was still one thing he could master.

"This is wonderful, James," she said, lifting another forkful to her mouth.

James's eyes fixed briefly on her deep red lips. He'd always loved her red lipstick. It stayed perfect even when she ate. A bit of her magic.

"Thank you," he said. "I did promise." Their smirks were nearly synchronised.

They ate in companionable silence for a moment.

"I met your charming dog walker today," she said, before taking a sip of red wine, watching him over the rim of the glass.

Flint frowned at her.

"I was concerned," Miranda explained.

"I wouldn't leave Neptune with him if I didn't think he was safe," he said tersely.

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Not about the dog. About you."

"What about me?"

"Oh, don't be obtuse, James. Letting a stranger into your home like that..." she chastised.

He snorted. "He's about as threatening as that dog of his."

"He's a scrappy little thing. Just on the wrong side of adorable."

"Peanut?" The name invoked the image of the dogs playing around in the shop. Flint smiled involuntarily.

"Silver."

He gave her a blank expression.

Ever since Miranda had arrived, he'd felt in her energy that tonight she meant to ask him all the questions he normally dodged but that invariably would come about every few weeks. About the case. About him. About progress. About the future. All Flint usually had to show for it was a handful of nothing, so he did not look forward to these conversations. This, though? What in the bloody hell.

"Gorgeous too," she continued, finally fixing his gaze with hers.

Oh no. No no. No.

Flint shrugged. "Neptune seems to like him."

"He does, doesn't he?" The corners of her lips twitched upwards.

"Stop it," Flint warned, reaching for his glass. He swallowed a mouthful of wine.

Miranda simply continued eating, but Flint knew better than to take her silence for acquiescence. He stuffed his mouth with potatoes and sulked.

 

After dinner, they sat sipping another bottle of red wine. Having been allowed on the sofa, Neptune was sat between them, head laid on Miranda's lap.

He'd always been oddly possessive of Miranda, for reasons neither Flint nor Thomas could explain. Miranda had offered that it might be a simple gender issue, with a male being more naturally drawn to a female and vice-versa. Thomas had raised his eyebrows playfully at Flint and declared their dog too straight for the household, then "demanded" a gayer dog immediately.

Whatever it was, when given a choice between the three of them, Neptune always preferred Miranda. When she'd decided it was time to wean Flint off her company by moving, he'd told her to take him. She'd refused. Flint had been silently grateful.

"I wish I could hear you play," Flint said.

"There is a piano at my house. You know, the one you refuse to go to."

Flint curled his hand so hard around his glass he wondered about it shattering. (Wished it'd shatter, and stain his hands red with blood and wine.)

"You know why."

Miranda pressed her lips together. "You have so many self-imposed rules, you'll forgive me if I sometimes forget some," she said in a stern tone that snapped like a whip in the quiet atmosphere between them. She nudged Neptune off her lap and got up. "It's getting late… I should get going."

As if hit by a gust of wind, his rage instantly died all the way down to regret. “Stay,” Flint said, barely audible, his gaze fixed on his lap.

Miranda sighed. “James…”

He got off the sofa and held her hands. He loomed over her slim form, as always, but in these circumstances it only aggravated his sense of ridicule. He caressed her knuckles with his thumb. “Please,” he muttered, finally lifting his eyes towards hers. He knew what he must look like, but despair brings many things out of a man. “I miss you.”

“I am right here, all the time. I am not who you miss—” Flint dropped her hands and turned away from her. “And no matter how hard you or I try, it will not do. This isn’t good for either of us, this chasing of the sunset. You need to make peace with this. Make peace with the world. Make peace with yourself, James,” she pleaded.

Flint could feel the anguish rising in his chest. He wanted to scream at her.

“They took my peace,” he said instead, twisting the pair of identical wedding bands on his left finger, round and round again.

Miranda closed her eyes softly and took a deep breath. Her will was about to crack—too tired and too lulled by the wine to fight him on this. He knew her too well; knew her tics and her tells. Knew she wouldn’t stay if she truly felt like going. But also knew she wouldn’t leave if he begged her to stay. He only needed to press a bit further and she’d resign to his wishes. And he’d sleep curled around her, wrapped up in her scent and her warmth, her long brown hair and her soft breasts brushing his nose and beard.

"I'll stay," she said, voice like warm leather. Pliant and inviting.

Flint held her face and planted his (perpetual) apology on her lips.

 

¥¥¥

 

Flint’s phone buzzed next to the keyboard, the vibration travelling through the desk.

He had a message from an unknown number. God, you order pizza _one_ time…

‘Will Neptune obey me like he obeys you?’

Oh, not pizza. Flint groaned in annoyance. Why was the dog boy texting him?

His phone buzzed again. ‘It’s Silver btw.’

Flint rolled his eyes and typed out the response. ‘No.’

Barely 5 seconds later, another buzz. ‘Why not?’

Oh, what a bloody idiot. Why was he even indulging this? Wait. He sent another text quickly. ‘Have you let him off his leash?’

Flint stared at the phone for a long time. Too long. The thing finally buzzed in his hand.

‘Course not ;)’

Flint narrowed his eyes at the screen. ‘Do your job. And DON'T lose my dog.’

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my thanks to my beta [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com). Bless your little heart for editing a story about a show you don't even watch XD (can't get more impartial than that!)
> 
> I wanna thank everyone for their comments and kudos :D You're all very kind. 
> 
> Chapter title from Popular by MIKA 
> 
> And in case anyone is wondering, yes, I am deeply in love with Miranda. And she's wearing [Dolce & Gabbana](http://store.dolcegabbana.com/gb/dolce-gabbana/casual-trouser_cod36817097le.html) and I am not even a little bit sorry.


	4. Now my foolish boat is leaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with the touching

Flint turned his head toward the door as soon as there was sound outside.

He took another sip of his scotch and put his shoes on. He’d abandoned his suit blazer and purple tie over the back of the sofa and sat with his shirtsleeves rolled up. It had been a hot day. Well, hot per London standards, anyways. Summer was fast approaching and he'd need to change over his suits. Maybe get some new shirts. The very notion of it was enough to knot his stomach.

How he loathed shopping. It was either going by himself and be the nightmare of every salesperson he found or let Miranda drag him to a tailor and get clinically groped, while she paraded fabrics and patterns in front of his face. Though he had to admit the result was always excellent when she was involved.

Yet another reminder of how much he missed Thomas. Every once in awhile he’d inspect Flint's wardrobe (probably tipped off by Miranda) and just turn up one day with his arms full of high-street bags. Flint didn't know how, but the items usually fit, and he'd always love everything about them. Enough not to ask the price of most of them or insist on trying to snatch the receipts from Thomas' hand held up high, away from him.

The door flew open and in walked Peanut and Neptune, attached to each other by the same leash. Neptune headed straight towards him, dragging Peanut along, who was already barking.

“Oh, shut up, Peanut!” Silver said, a curtain of hair obscuring his face, as he shoved the keys back into his messenger bag. Peanut kept on barking at Flint, who simply frowned at him.

“I wish that would actually work sometime,” Flint said.

“Fuckin' hell!” Silver shouted, hand over his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.” He ran a hand through his curls, flipping most of them to one side of his head. It made him look even more dishevelled. Inviting. “What are you doing here?” Silver asked, still a little breathless.

“I live here,” Flint said, deadpan.

“Ha ha,” Silver replied dryly, walking into the living room. “Have you been sitting here thinking of that one for long?”

The tone should've rubbed him the wrong way, but Flint let himself slide into it too. “Yes,” he said, taking a sip of his scotch.

Silver did a double-take, mouth gaping like a fish. After a second, his face completely transformed into a too-pleased expression. That wouldn't do.

“Why is my dog off his leash?” Flint asked, all the mirth out of his voice.

“He's home!”

“Then why is he attached to your dog?”

Silver's eyes shifted toward the leash still connecting the two dogs. “So I don't lose either of them?”

Flint glared.

Silver's face melted into a feeble expression, downturned mouth included, like Flint was just about to issue his grandmother's death sentence. Were his eyes suddenly bluer?

“You shit,” Flint spit out.

Silver held out his hands. “He kept pulling on the leash! Your wife said she usually let him run loose in the park and I—”

“My wife?” Flint’s voice went a bit higher than he intended.

“Miranda,” Silver clarified, face full of false confusion. There was a degree of familiarity there Flint was entirely uncomfortable with (why did she have to be so forward with everyone she met?).

“That's because he _obeys_ Miranda,” Flint snarled.

He unhooked the leash off Neptune, who ran toward the kitchen, Peanut close behind, as if still attached. The leash dragged behind him, the metal tip hitting every piece of furniture on the way. Of course.

Silver carried on talking. “It's not like he could get very far attached to Peanut! Seriously, Peanut doesn't do ‘far’. Or ‘fast’. Something that was made painfully obvious today...” Silver grimaced.

“So you had _my_ dog drag your poor dog all over Hyde Park?”

“Little bit, yeah,” he admitted.

“Why is he even here? I never said anything about your dog being allowed in my house,” Flint hissed.

“You never said anything about him _not_ being allowed in your house…” Silver said in a syrupy tone that undoubtedly had worked its way into many an old lady's heart. “Also, Peanut is very… demonstrative about his feelings on being left alone.” Silver sat on the edge of the furthest end of the sofa.

Flint looked at him like he'd just grown a second head. “What are you doing?”

“Pardon?”

“Why are you sitting?”

“Because we're having a discussion?” Silver replied, still not getting up.

Flint gave him a chilly smile. “This isn't a discussion. This is you about to get fired.”

“But they had fun!“

“Hardly the point.”

“I thought that _was_ the whole point,” Silver grumbled, combing through his curls with his fingers and bunching them together atop his head. His white Queen T-shirt rode nearly all the way to his still-obscured belly button, revealing a hairless and defined stomach.

Flint lowered his eyes and gritted his teeth. “Fun isn’t the only thing that matters,” he said.

“Then teach me.”

Flint frowned in confusion. “Teach you?”

“Teach me how to make Neptune obey," Silver explained, letting his hair down.

Flint snorted.

“Well, it's the best way to ensure everyone is happy. C’mon, it can't be that hard,” Silver entreated.

“From what I’ve seen of your dog? It’d take years,” Flint replied with a raised eyebrow.

“Peanut is the problem, not me!” Silver seemed truly offended. “I’m a very fast learner. And Neptune already likes me.”

“So your dog doesn’t like you?” Flint tried to hold back his smirk.

“Sorta just tolerates my existence as his assistant,” Silver said, frowning, as if this knowledge had just been made clear to him.

“I’m starting to understand how he feels,” Flint said.

Silver’s smile was all teeth, bright as a light bulb. He tucked his foot under himself. “So when do we start?” he asked.

Flint gave a resigned sigh. He really had to do this, didn’t he? For his own damn peace of mind. After all, it was the vision of Silver running after Neptune all over the park or worst, onto the road, that had driven him home. The mere thought of losing Neptune was unbearable.

“Sunday, 9am,” Flint informed him.

Silver’s smile faltered a bit at the mention of the time.

“Don’t be late.”

“It’s a date,” Silver said and winked.

“Now stop smiling and get out of my house,” Flint said, downing the rest of his scotch.

For a moment Silver seemed unsure of whether or not he was being serious, but after a few uncomfortable seconds of Flint staring him down, he jumped off his seat and hurried after Peanut.

Halfway out of the room, he suddenly stopped. He was looking at the pair of large cherry oak bookcases next to the TV.

Flint raised his eyebrow at Silver’s back. He realised it was the first time Silver was in his living room. He just stood there, eyes roaming through the haphazard collection of books. He reached out hesitantly with his arm.

“Can I—”

“Sure,” Flint replied. He was at a loss as to what possessed him to say that, but the word just came tumbling out of his mouth.

He sat there watching Silver go through the tomes, fingers caressing their spines, pulling some out to browse through.

Some warm thing bloomed in Flint’s chest and climbed all the way to his throat. “You can borrow them, if you’d like,” he heard himself say.

For his part, Silver seemed as surprised as him. He bit his lower lip and grabbed a book quickly, as if afraid Flint would go back on his offer. The smile he offered Flint was different from his usual grinning—unguarded and, Flint realised with alarm, sweet. Flint turned back in the sofa.

Silver still threw him a goodbye, but Flint remained silent, nursing his glass of melting ice. As soon as the door shut, Flint let himself lay down in the sofa. He pointedly ignored the spark spreading in his groin.

Fuck.

 

¥¥¥

 

Silver was going to be late. Surprise of the fucking century. In his defence, it was Peanut's fault. Well, sort of. Fifty percent. The other fifty percent were the fault of going out yesterday for some deliveries and then ending up staying at the house party of one of his regulars, drinking beer and smoking half the bloody stuff he'd gone there to deliver in the first place. Okay, maybe eighty percent.

He probably looked like shit, too. And running up the street dragging Peanut's lazy ass behind him wasn't doing him any favours either. It was just the last stretch up to Flint's house, so he was legging it, thoughts of maybe furthering their intimacy today powering his saggy lungs.

Surprisingly, he made it without throwing up his breakfast.

He let his breathing settle while pinning his hair up in a loose bun, roping one of the curls around it to secure it. After he felt sufficiently composed, he picked up Peanut to avoid any misbehaving and prepared to ring the bell. However, before he could do that, the door swung open, revealing a scowling Flint. Okay, psychic powers was just overkill; he was already scary enough. Though Silver might reconsider that statement, given the outfit he was sporting. It was the first time Silver was seeing Flint in anything but a suit. He couldn't decide if the dad jeans and green polo shirt combo was adorable or not.

“You're late,” Flint said. He immediately turned his back on Silver and went inside.

Silver shuffled in, trying to keep a squirming Peanut in place. “I am not. It's, like, five past. That is _not_ late.”

Before Silver could round the corner into the living room, Flint came out of it and they nearly bumped into each other. He was now wearing a brown leather jacket too, and holding Neptune by his leash.

“Let's go,” Flint said, starting to move forward.

Silver remained in place, which meant Flint only managed to fully collide with Peanut's body. He was very tempted to “accidentally” drop Peanut right on the floor. Silver would then tumble into Flint's body and finally establish contact; feel how hard his seemingly unyielding chest really was.

He opened his mouth to speak and his parched lips made a very faint crackling sound. He flicked his tongue out to try and wet them. Flint's eyes shifted to the movement briefly.

“Can I have a glass of water?” Silver asked.

Flint looked about to reply negatively but then Peanut licked his face. All the way from chin to cheekbone. (He had a huge tongue for such a small creature.)

Flint closed his eyes and seemed to mentally count to five, before turning around and stalking toward the kitchen. Silver was too busy trying not to laugh to remember to apologise.

In the kitchen, Flint busied himself washing his face, while Silver politely waited to be served. Peanut had scampered off to drink some of Neptune’s water.

“I know you know where the glasses are,” Flint said, drying his face in a paper towel.

Silver had the decency to look somewhat contrite, before heading to the correct cupboard and getting a pint glass out. He filled it with tap water and drank deeply.

“How did you know I was at the door?” Silver asked.

“Neptune recognises the sound your steps make. Your scent.” Something about the way that last phrase came out of Flint’s mouth made goosebumps travel up Silver’s arms, all the way to his scalp. “And, even more likely, Peanut’s steps and scent. Neptune was at the door before you were. Do you know _anything_ about dogs?”

“Why? Is there going to be a quiz?”

 

The short walk to Hyde Park was spent with Silver doing most of the talking. He’d never much liked silence; it felt like a distant cousin to loneliness, and he’d had enough of that growing up. He especially disapproved of uncomfortable silences, so he blabbered on about whatever came to his mind on the way to the park. Flint seemed distantly aware of his words but perked up when Silver started talking about his thoughts on the book he’d borrowed: _The Odyssey_. He seemed surprised by the headway Silver had made in two days. Silver was used to people’s assumptions about the inverse correlation between his intelligence and his looks, but hadn’t felt like going into that particular discussion, so he’d just shrugged and replied he didn’t like being bored, which was true enough.

When they got to the park, Flint led them to a nice spot under a tree. Peanut jumped up and down, begging Silver to unleash him, but Flint had advised against it, so for now he had to suffer through the loud whimpering and the scratchy nails on his legs. What a great day to wear shorts.

Flint extended his hand out toward him and dropped a handful of tiny dog treats onto Silver’s hand. “Positive reinforcement,” he explained.

Silver threw one at Peanut. It hit him on the head and bounced onto the ground, while he spun around confused. Silver shook his head. After a few seconds of sniffing Peanut finally snatched it off the grass.

Out of the corner of his eye, Silver was suddenly aware of Flint staring at him. He was glowering again. Wasn't he scared his face would get stuck like that? Hell, it already seemed to be. Silver had no problem admitting it made his nether regions tingle pleasantly and yet... With an unexpected pang of wistfulness, he wondered what a smiling Flint would look like.

“There—I have positively reinforced Peanut being hopeless,” Silver said.

Flint rolled his eyes, ignoring his quip. “What we need is for Neptune to react to your commands. So we're just going to focus on the most useful one today: ‘Come’.”

Silver smirked. “Wish I could ma—”

“Don't you fucking dare.”

Silver swallowed the joke, repressing his smile as much as he could.

“One more salacious quip out of you and I'm leaving,” Flint warned, looking uncomfortable. “Now be quiet. Listen.”

Silver nodded.

Once they got into it, Silver understood immediately how trying this with Peanut, as he’d optimistically envisioned, was going to be an absolute nightmare. The command was to be said once and once only. There was a clicker thing. And sometimes there were treats and sometimes there were not. Bottom line, it required an inordinate amount of patience from both human and dog. Silver was nearly sweating just from seeing Flint and Neptune do it so seamlessly and with such restraint.

“Here, you try it.” Flint reached out for Silver’s hand and placed the clicker on the inside of it, waiting for Silver’s fingers to close around it.

Silver was so shocked by the casual touch he didn't react fast enough and the clicker landed on the ground. Peanut dove for it with a vengeance.

 _That_ got a quick reaction from Silver. He went down on his knees and grabbed Peanut’s closing jaw with both hands, keeping his little maw open. “He’s gonna swallow it! It’s too small!”

Peanut trashed around, trying to break free.

Flint squatted and stuck his hand inside the dog’s mouth, in an effort to grab the clicker before he swallowed it. Peanut bucked and twisted, tongue stuck between swallowing and spitting.

“No, no, no! You’re gonna choke, Peanut! SPIT IT OUT!” Silver yelled.

Flint shoved his hand further, grappling with Peanut’s thick tongue. Silver’s eyes went wide. He was going to hurt him like that! He was about to let go of Peanut’s jaws, when Flint pulled free, clicker in hand, lost his balance, and fell on his ass.

And then Flint started laughing.

Silver froze, holding Peanut against his neck and receiving apologetic licks to the face. The laughter was breathless and wheezy, punctuated by a rich, deep cackling. Flint wouldn’t stop laughing either. As if he hadn’t done it in years. It was a sight. Neptune seemed as startled by the sound as him, which provided some measure of comfort, and actually started howling in accompaniment. Flint only started laughing harder. It was contagious, and Silver started chuckling himself. Flint’s eyes, now warm and inviting, met Silver’s.

It took Flint’s phone ringing to sober them up. Flint answered it while petting Neptune with his other hand.

Silver was suddenly aware of warmth against his legs and realised they were intertwined with Flint’s. He looked up at Flint. The scowl was back and much more pronounced than before. He was answering in monosyllables and the right corner of his mouth trembled in some mix of pain and anger. On impulse, Silver started gently rubbing his legs against Flint’s, in a soothing gesture of sorts. He felt the legs relax under his, so he kept it up. He was about to reach out with his hand to touch Flint’s knee when the call ended. Flint stared down at his phone for a few seconds and then snapped his neck up, eyes unfocused, like he’d just remembered where he was.

“Bad news?” Silver murmured.

Flint blinked at him and then at their jumbled up legs. He stood up as if pricked with a pin, nearly kicking Silver in the process.

“I have to go,” he said to the ground, fumbling with his hair. “Neptune, come.” The Husky obeyed immediately and started walking after Flint.

Well, that was just adding insult to injury. Silver wanted to say something, but the sudden change in moods had struck him mute. Tail wagging, Peanut started to follow after them, but Silver grabbed the leash firmly, twisting it around his fist. Peanut pulled at it and whined.

 

¥¥¥

 

Miranda sat in James' dining table, nursing a fresh cup of tea. He should be here soon enough. She fortified herself against the storm James would bring with him. The path that lay ahead of them was about to become either considerably easier or impossibly harder.

Miranda was not one for prayer. Despite her parents’ religious beliefs, she’d never felt accompanied by some mystical, all-powerful, all-knowing entity. She’d discovered early on that miracles to any extent were found in the world around her—in the sun shining down on her face through the leaves of a tall plane tree, in brushing her mother’s long and soft brown hair, in running down a hill in her best dress holding hands with Thomas, in the impossible softness of Neptune’s fur, in a lazy and warm morning spent on plush sheets and James' arms. No, she was not one for prayer. But if she were, she’d implore for the Lord’s mercy in the face of this.

James finally arrived. Miranda settled the china on the saucer. He was by her side in the expanse of a few seconds, all barely contained energy, sitting and turning towards her. James grabbed her hand and she felt the tremble there.

“Billy called you too?” James asked, redundantly.

Miranda nodded.

“Once the decision is made and we’re actually charged, I’ll—”

“We don’t know that it’s happening yet. Billy seemed confident they would dismiss the case,” Miranda said, in the steadiest voice she could find in herself.

“Nevertheless, if it happens, I will not allow them to implicate you in this. You have nothing to fear,” James said, squeezing her hand.

Miranda smiled sadly. She knew this. Her fear was not for herself. She tucked James’ loose strands behind his ears and cupped his cheek.

“I would do it again,” he said, in a fervid tone, green eyes full of a familiar ruthlessness. “A thousand times over.”

Miranda sighed. Some dark rabid part of her echoed in the back of her brain, ‘ _Good_ ’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My huge thanks to [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com), my glorious beta, for basically holding my hand until the end of this one. Team work! :D 
> 
> And a special thanks again to [ellelan](http://ellelan.tumblr.com/) for an idea that takes seed in this chapter, to further bloom ahead. *wink wink* *nudge nudge* 
> 
> And thank you all for your cheering! :D 
> 
> Chapter title from Song to Siren by This Mortal Coil (the whole song is just a silverflint fest tbh)
> 
> No actual animals were harmed in the making of this chapter.


	5. 99 Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where shit gets real

Billy lowered his head under the doorframe of their office. Mr. Gates was up from his desk right away, slapping him hard in the arm. Billy smiled the pain away, as usual. What was it about being tall and muscular that led other people to believe he had fewer nervous endings?

"Here's our Billy! How was your holiday?"

"It was good, it was good."

"Got yourself quite a tan there!"

Billy smiled. "Yeah, I know. Who would've thought?" His smiled died before the next sentence. "Is he in?"

Mr. Gates sobered up immediately and jerked his head towards Flint's office.

Billy took a deep breath. He knew Flint's mood was going to be hell the next few days, until the official police report. By now he should really be used to managing them, but they still wore Billy down to the bone. No matter how much holiday he took. Much to his dismay, sometimes Billy thought of himself as a guardian of sorts; as much as one can be the guardian of a loose cannon. Billy, just like Flint, was in the Royal Navy. You spend enough time in the military and you learn to recognise this undercurrent of barely contained violence that some of your fellow servicemen carry about them, like a pinless grenade. Flint had it. And it terrified Billy.

He knocked on the door. There was a muffled 'Come in' from the other side.

Flint was slumped over a set of papers that Billy instantly recognised. By now he knew the bloody thing by heart—the preliminary report. As if some miracle was going to burst forward from its pages to evaporate Flint's ever-growing frown. He was being uncharitable, though.

This whole thing was far from some mundane concern and, were he on the end of such accusations, he's not certain he could endure as Flint had. He'd always struck Billy as able to weather the severest of storms, and this whole ordeal was nothing but confirmation. There he stood, assaulted on all sides, fighting on two fronts against police, lawyers, doctors, reports, and whatever else they could throw in his path, and yet he pressed on.

Billy was afraid, yes, but he was also in awe of him. What kind of energy propels such a man? To fight so hard, for so long, and to such an uncertain end. The case against the hospital was far from over, and everyone knew it. Especially Flint. It'd been going on for years. And this... Even if it didn't go anywhere, the strain it placed on Flint had to be tremendous, and the damage to his reputation and the hospital lawsuit could very well be irreparable. Not a lot of people come back from murder accusations. Except OJ. And that guy did it.

Billy still couldn't understand where this whole thing came from. DCI Dufresne was on this like a bloodhound. Most of the stuff couldn't even be called circumstantial, let alone tangible. He was ruffling some very pristine feathers, too, going around casting doubt over a Lord's death. The Kingdom had little interest in this sort of speculation. Yet, somehow, Dufresne hadn't gotten himself sacked yet. Billy knew he wasn't being told everything, but any broaching of the subject with Flint was only met by suspiciously blank stares.

It was the murkiness that had Billy, and most likely Flint, nervous about the outcome of this. Any other similar case, he'd be advising his client there was nothing to worry about. But he couldn’t tell Flint that. Flint seemed to know he had something to worry about. Was it Hornigold? Rogers, even?

"Hey, boss. How have you been?" Billy asked.

Flint’s eyes shifted around for a moment, seemingly at a loss. "Fine,” he said, shrugging. He always seemed surprised when anyone asked. Billy hadn’t been able to figure out yet if it was because he resented the idea that he was having a hard time—of anything, at any given time, in his entire life—or because he was genuinely surprised that someone actually cared for his well-being.  

“Any news?" Flind asked, knowing the answer fully well.

Billy shook his head.

Flint took a deep breath before speaking again. "Listen, Billy, there's something I need to ask of you.”

Billy was already refusing in his head.

Flint kept his eyes on the papers in front of him, scratching his goatee. "If this whole thing goes tits up and Miranda gets implicated, I need you to stick with her. No matter what."

"Of course. She's my client," Billy said. And the catch?

Flint finally looked him in the eyes. "If she gets accused, I'm going to confess."

Billy’s eyes went wide and he was stunned for a few seconds. His mind was blank. "Are you fucking mental?" he heard himself shout.

Flint raised his eyebrows.

Billy couldn't give a shit about tone right now. "Confess to a murder you didn't fucking commit? Are you serious? You're Navy! You wouldn’t get a trial, you'd get fucking court martialed!" Flint tried to interject but Billy wasn't nearly done. "There's no fucking evidence! If you confess, that's it. Have you lost your fuckin' head?" Billy could hear his East London accent getting thicker as his anger bubbled up.

Flint fixed him with a stern look. "Are you done?"

"Not by a long shot," Billy replied. "I won't agree to this. And neither will Miranda. You know that."

"It's not up to you or her," Flint said in a smaller voice, looking at his hands on his lap. The effect the woman had on him was astounding.

"I will waive counsel and be done with it as soon as possible. There won't be a court martial. I'm no longer in service."

Billy blinked at the new information. He’d thought Flint was still a reserve. He'd been discharged?

Flint got up and turned toward the window behind his desk, assuming the unshakable 'at ease' position. "I'm only telling you this as a matter of courtesy."

"Courtesy?" Billy shot back. "To leave me dead in the water, after the years of work I've put into the hospital suit? After you convinced me we could win the bloody thing? After refusing offers, to stick this out with you? Fuck your courtesy!"

Flint snapped his head back and fixed him with that look that bore no denying him. The look that’d probably had cadets cleaning latrines for the foreseeable future, back in the day. But this wasn't the fucking Navy. And Flint wasn't his fucking SO.

And that's when it hit Billy: he _was_. He had been for the past three years. That's how Billy had seen it. Once a marine... The realisation struck him dumb.

Flint frowned at him.

It must’ve been showing in Billy's face—the confusion; the shock of it. To be abandoned so thoughtlessly by the North by which you'd set the compass of your future.

Mouth still agape, Billy turned around and left the office, slamming the door behind him.

 

¥¥¥              

 

"Come,” Silver said.

Neptune stared at him from the end of the garden, head tilted to the side. At least it garnered his attention now, so that was some progress.

“Come, Neptune,” he pleaded.

Beside him, Flint sighed audibly. “No. I told you not to say it more than once. And stop saying it like that.”

"Like what?" Silver pouted. He'd taken to doing it every time Flint used a harsher tone, turning his blue eyes on him like a bloody harpoon. Not for the first time, Flint wondered who was training whom.  

“Like you're begging." Flint wished he could say the choice of words was an unfortunate coincidence but he knew his mouth was starting to bypass his brain to interface directly with his dick.

"I happen to be very good at begging," Silver said in a lower voice, eyes full of mischief. A pulse of want had Flint dry swallowing. "I beg Peanut to stop chewing on my shoes,” Silver carried on, turning away from Flint. "Beg Randall for a raise. Beg my landlord to give us another extension. Beg Jack to stop using my shampoo."

Flint rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm afraid you can't convince Neptune to obey you by talking his ear off."

Silver shrugged. "Pity."

It was alarming to discover that, more and more, this kind of comment tickled him instead of annoyed him. The damned boy was growing on him like fucking mold and Flint didn't like the feeling of helplessness that came with that. He knew what Silver was doing and still, he couldn't help being willing prey. He could just get rid of him, of course. But he provided a welcome distraction. And some part of him had gotten used to this—to being... less lonely. He hadn't realised what was happening until he was already caught up in it.

“He’s not a person, he’s a dog. He responds to authority." Flint closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need you to be able to grasp this very simple concept, Silver. I understand now, trying to teach you about authority is like trying to teach Peanut about... well, authority. But if you can’t control Neptune, this whole thing is off”, he said with a tone of finality.

“Why?” Silver asked, alarmed.

“Because I can’t trust you. Now stop wasting my time,” Flint snapped.

“You’re being too hard on him," he heard Miranda say from behind them.

They turned toward her.

She was wearing one of her beautiful cocktail dresses—a red and black patterned one, which always reminded Flint of a deck of cards. The Queen of Hearts herself. There was a tray with some glasses and a jug filled with what Flint assumed was orange juice. If there was a God there’d be vodka in there too.

“I remember how long it took you to train him when he was a puppy," she teased. "And you were in the Army, James!"

Silver turned to look at him. Flint tried chastising Miranda with a look. It was bad enough she was here, lending this whole thing an air of domesticity Flint was extremely uncomfortable with, without her talking about him in front of Silver.

"The Navy, Miranda," Flint corrected, despite himself.

It wasn't unusual for Flint to be surprised by his own emotional attachments. He often blinded himself to them until they'd burned their way through everything he'd thrown at them and trapped him in a corner. But after Thomas he felt nothing there but scorched earth. His love for Miranda still burned but it held steady, the constant warmth of a fireplace. She sat at the garden table and smiled sweetly at him.

On his most terrible nights he'd wonder though. Wonder what kind of man he'd be if it had been Miranda taken and not Thomas. Some voice dripping poison in the depths of his consciousness wished her dead in Thomas' stead then. The worst of it wasn't the wish—it was the unshakable certainty that if given a choice... he'd choose him. And every cell of his body was permeated by the guilt of it.

"Come!" she called to them, a little exasperated at their seemingly slow reasoning.

Silver started sauntering over without so much as a 'may I?', only to be overtaken by Neptune, who Flint realised with a chuckle was simply following Miranda's command. Silver looked back at him with narrowed eyes, but Flint offered nothing but a raised eyebrow. Silver sat next to Miranda while she poured for him, lavishing his thanks all over her and going off on how she was such a gracious hostess compared to ‘some people’. He was startled by Neptune jamming himself protectively between his chair and hers, nearly knocking the glass off.

Standing by the table, Flint smiled into his own glass and tried his best not to let his eyes rest on Silver. Indulging in the fantasy was entertaining enough, but the very notion of allowing Silver any more than the meagre peripheral space he’d conquered was laughable. Silver was obviously working an angle here. One he’d soon find out was a bit too steep, even for his wile, and lose interest. Still, Flint wouldn’t deny himself the pleasure of letting his body remember how much he enjoyed the look and feel of another man. Lately, he’d been reminding himself often, in bed, late at night. It felt like wanting to be alive again.

“So you were a sailor then, Mr. Flint?” Silver asked, leaning back in the chair in a way that stripped the honorific of its entire purpose.

“Yes. What of it?” Flint grunted back. He was suddenly self-conscious of his natural military posture, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but he’d be damned if he was going to sit there like they were having a fucking picnic.

“Just curious, is all. I can’t even swim. There’s something oddly enticing about the military isn’t there?” Silver directed the question at Miranda, who eyed Flint unashamedly.

“I’m certain you wouldn’t last two seconds there,” Flint said.

“Oh, I have no doubt you’re absolutely right. I’m really not built for willing suffering.” Silver slouched further into the chair. “I can hardly endure the gym, let alone boot camp!”

“There’s something to be said for discipline and forbearance,” Miranda chimed in. “I think it’s a big part of what makes James such an excellent lawyer. He’s the most determined man I’ve ever met.”

No, he wasn’t. Still, he offered Miranda the fondest look he dared express in mixed company. She smiled, knowingly.

“Did you two meet during his sailor days then?”

Miranda chuckled. “Oh yes, he was every bit the dashing officer.”

Silver snickered.

Flint levelled Miranda a look, and she made a very poor attempt at feigning contrition. Spotting one of Neptune’s endless supply of balls, Flint grabbed it off the floor and threw it at Silver’s chest.

“Go fetch,” Flint said.

Silver raised his eyebrows.  

“Play fetch with Neptune. It’s good for him to get used to returning to you.”

Silver sighed but obeyed, throwing the ball to the far end of the garden. He got up and followed Neptune, who was already running after it.

Flint finally sat down next to Miranda.

“There is an extremely attractive young man playing fetch with your dog, in your garden, at your behest. What are you doing, James?”

When she said it like that, it did sound ridiculous. He looked at Silver.

“You know why he’s here,” Miranda continued. “I don’t see how you expect this to actually end.” There was a rising exasperation in her voice, one which a life in common had taught him to fear. Nevertheless, he remained silent.

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I wish there was some vodka in this orange juice,” she said, pouring some more of the cool drink into her glass and then his own. After a pause, she reached for Flint’s hand and squeezed it. He turned to look at her. "You finally want something. Don't you see how wonderful that is, James? There’s no shame in—"

"I don’t need you to tell me what I want,” he snapped. “I've done nothing but want for all these years."

"Oh, stop it!" Miranda shot back. Flint was surprised by her own bitterness in tone. "Just stop it. That isn't wanting. That's... that's..." she trailed off with a deep sigh, rubbing her temple.

Flint let loose the indignation bubbling up in his chest. "It's what, Miranda?" he hissed.

Her face was a mask of pity, but she simply shook her head and let her hand slide off his. The unspoken answer hung heavily between them, and the garden suddenly felt very small with the flood of all the years and memories. He’d been lost for such a long time now. His whole body strained at the urge to bury his face in her lap and wrap his arms around her ribs. Even after all these years, he still felt the pull of the compassion found there. But just then, she may as well have been across a canyon. He was lost.

Silver’s arrival at the table grated against the tension in the air, and the young man hesitated briefly before speaking. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” Silver looked frazzled and, for once, his brazen attitude was absent from his manners. Flint noticed the phone on his right hand, the normally tan knuckles white.  

“Is everything alright?” Miranda asked. “Do you need a ride somewhere? My car is outside.”

Flint and Silver’s looks of surprise reflected off each other.

Silver blinked for a few seconds but shook his head and offered up his fake smile. “Oh, no, thank you. It’s fine. I’ll see you soon,” he said, already on his way out of the garden.

Miranda looked at Flint disapprovingly.

Flint got up, with as much ruckus as possible—an easy feat with a metal table and chairs—and stormed off to be with Neptune on the other side of the garden.

 

¥¥¥

 

Silver ran inside his flat, bumping against the myriad of shit in their fucking funnel of a hallway. Peanut came running toward him, barking nervously.

Anne was standing outside the bedroom, looking like the feral guard dog Silver knew she was.

“Where is she?” he asked, breathless.

All he got for an answer was a hand around his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you, my dear [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com). My grammar wiz! My cheerleader! My Windsor beauty! (AHAH XD) 
> 
> A very, very special thanks to [surfacegoblin](http://surfacegoblin.tumblr.com/) for creating a beautiful piece of [fanart](http://surfacegoblin.tumblr.com/post/144510241908/i-read-the-dogwalkerau-and-it-made-me-want-to) inspired by this mess. Look at it! LOOK AT IT.  
> I was in tears that something I created inspired someone else to create. You'll never know the gift you've given me with this. 
> 
>  
> 
> Miranda is wearing [Carolina Herrera](http://www.demeterclarc.com/wp-content/uploads/images/2013/01/CAROLINA-HERRERA-PRE-FALL-2013-.jpg)
> 
> Shout out to ["Maybe you're not the worst thing ever"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLYiyK7uqUE), as seen in Galavant :D
> 
> Chapter title from 99 Problems by Jay Z


	6. A little more bite, a little less bark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one everyone was waiting for

"What did you do, you fuck?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific," Silver just barely managed, gripping her wrist.

Anne's reply came in the form of her fingers tightening further around his neck and slamming his head against the wall behind him again. His teeth rattled. Oh, God, how was she this strong?

"Anne, please." Max’s trembling voice came from the open door behind Anne.

Silver raised his arms in surrender and waited for Anne to release him, then scurried into the bedroom.

Max stood in front of her vanity, applying something on her neck. Silver's eyes widened at the bruises around it, reflected by the mirror.

"Max..." he murmured.

"All is well, _chéri_." She kept dabbing away at her neck, eyes avoiding his reflection.

At first, Silver thought she was applying some kind of cream, but a closer look revealed it was foundation.

"You're not going in today, are you?"

"Of course I am. The world does not stop turning over some silly bruise."

He knew better than to argue. She'd probably already shot down every angry plea from Anne.

John sat on the bed, eyes wide and wild with realisation. There was nothing he could say. There was only planning to do. As sides of the same coin, Silver knew he could offer Max nothing better than the comfort of a scarce presence and a viable escape route. Like some wounded lizard, they only needed solitude and safety to regrow their tail, away from prying eyes. No fuss needed. Just business as usual, pay no mind to their bloody severed appendages. It'll grow back. It always grows back, right?

Silver closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I didn't think he'd find us here. London is so fucking big..."

"So is Charles Vane, apparently."

A thought ran cold through his body. "Did Jack tell him?"

He looked directly at the mirror, and Max caught his eyes right away. "Of course not. Don't be an idiot. He would never do that to Anne."

"He'd bloody well do it to me. To you!"

Max finally turned around to fix him with a stern look, but Anne spoke first. "Not to _me_ ," she growled, crossing her arms.

Silver gritted his teeth but relented under Max's eyes. She'd know. Still...

"He wants the diamonds. The diamonds you stole. The diamonds you don't have," Anne said, leaning against the doorframe. She looked at him through her long red hair with a disgust usually reserved for cockroaches. It was nothing new and it was all well and good with him, _except_ he hadn't stolen those diamonds alone. Max was as much up to her neck in this as he was. However, he didn't feel particularly inclined to remind Anne of this right now. Not when his skull still ached.

"There is no way we can get the diamonds back. Or the money to make up for them," Max said. Her black-lined eyes shone with the inner workings of her mind, probably mimicking Silver’s own.

"We have to leave again," Silver added.

Max nodded in agreement. "A week?"

"That should do it. How much can you nick from work?" Silver asked.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Anne said.

Max got up and started pacing. "Not from the office. But from a few clients, yes. If I ask they will give it. Some of the other escorts, too. And I can just take the credit cards for cloning."

"You can't run your whole fuckin' lives!" Anne yelled at Max.

"Yes, we can," Silver and Max both replied, nearly in unison.

Silver ran through the dog shop mentally but realised there was hardly anything there he could take. No surprise there. It was mostly cash free. He could do a few cards too, sure, but...

"What?" Max asked eagerly, recognising the birth of a new scheme on Silver's face.

"Flint," Silver replied.

“What about him?”

“The way he keeps that house locked away from me, there’s bound to be something of value somewhere. Not to mention his wallet.”

Max rolled her eyes. “It has been weeks, John, and you have barely made it past the door.”

Silver’s pride faltered under that one. Flint was being challenging, yes, but in Silver’s defence he was going for the long con, not a quick shag and grab. And he actually enjoyed the bloke’s company, so sue him. Flint made him feel greedy in ways he wasn’t expecting. The less Flint gave, the more Silver wanted to take. It was a dangerous thing to hold something out of Silver’s reach and say he couldn’t have it. It was practically irresistible. A sickness, really.

“I just need to turn up the heat is all,” he said, running a hand through his curls.

“I do think that Paddington Bear of yours is the answer, darling, but not in the way you think.”

It was Jack. He was now standing in the doorway, next to Anne, leaning his arm on her shoulders, looking every bit the fucking hipster he was, with his stupid moustache and vintage glasses.

His words did make Silver’s ears perk up though. “The fuck do you mean?”

Jack gave him a Cheshire Cat smile, laying his chin on top of his hand. “There’s something your Mr. Flint has that our Mr. Vane wants.”

 

¥¥¥

 

As strange as it might seem, Flint actually looked forward to these little meetings with Rogers. It provided his adversarial nature with an escape valve and the bottomless pit of his rage with a focal point and a relatively civilised way to manifest itself. He'd learned the futility of slashing against the wind a long time ago. Woodes Rogers was an intelligent man; Flint could admire that and still wish him dead. A worthy opponent would only make his triumph that more incontestable and righteous. So it was with familiar trepidation that Flint sat across this very same man in his office.

"What we are offering is, at this point in the conversation, beyond generous," Rogers proclaimed.

Flint snorted. "By now you should've understood that my motivation is not financial." From the corner of his eye he could see Billy shift in the chair next to his. "Were you under the impression you were going to waltz in here, flash money at me and walk out with all your client hoped to still retain?" he asked.

Rogers smiled. "Frankly, yes."

Flint offered his smuggest smile in return.

"And I'll tell you why, Mr Flint. Unlike my predecessors, I have not come into this negotiation as the beggar king but rather the rich lord. And not just financially." Rogers sat back in his chair. "I'm sure you're aware of the report to come out soon? About Lord Hamilton's death."

Flint gave him a mirthless toothy grin. "You do yourself a disservice by bringing this up, Mr. Rogers. Men far better than you have tried to level this fabricated nonsense against me and failed."

"I suppose that depends on your definition of ‘fabricated nonsense’," Rogers said.

Flint raised his chin higher, steeling himself. Rogers's seemingly unshakable confidence was starting to gain ground on Flint's own. He'd been in this position with the man many times before but he'd never quite felt like he was just on the edge of realising he was out of his depth. What was he on about? There was no way he could… Was there?

"Did you or Mrs Hamilton have any involvement in the death of Lord Hamilton? I highly doubt it. Though, the head investigator certainly seems keen on that idea." Rogers paused and sent a brief look Billy's way. "Now, how much keener do you think he'd be if he knew about the depth of your involvement with the Hamiltons?"

Flint felt as if the room itself had suddenly plummeted a few floors down, cresting off a big wave. Worst of all, he knew it showed on his face. "Everyone knows perfectly well the extent of my involvement with the Hamiltons. I was their close friend and legal advisor," Flint recited.

Rogers’s smile seemed almost sad, with a glint of pity. Flint knew Rogers's history of loss just as well as anyone else, plain as day on the ugly scars across his face. And apparently Rogers knew his. It was sympathy, Flint realised. Sympathy for a man who, like him, had lost it all and was about to lose so much more.

Flint felt like his mind had abandoned his body to fend for itself—a sinking rock, rushing toward the bottom of a deep dark ocean.

“I urge you to accept our offer. It is a large enough sum to guarantee all the families involved get some semblance of compensation for their loss,” Rogers said. He pushed the manila envelope in front of him across the table. “Sign, and this will all be over. They say that the best agreements are secured when both parties walk away from the negotiations table unhappy. Trust me, they are not happy.”

Flint stared at the envelope, trying to steady the pulse throbbing in his head and dissipate the feeling of being cornered like an animal. He could pretend to ponder on this for the benefit of the two other men in the room. Hell, he was pretending to ponder on it for his own benefit, just so he could try to better withstand Miranda’s undoubted disappointment.

But if he was being honest, he knew he wasn’t going to sign anything. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. To capitulate was to admit he was in the wrong, and the very notion of it was enough to turn the words into ash in his mouth, especially in the face of Roger’s vile threat. He wasn’t wrong. They weren’t wrong. Flint felt like hurling the desk at Roger’s face, the slimy fuck. ‘A good lawyer tries to win. A great lawyer tries to get the other side to accept to lose,’ Flint had told Billy when he’d started. He wasn’t accepting shit, no matter how hard Rogers poked at his gaping wound. He’d bled this long; he could stand to bleed a little longer (and what of Miranda?). But he wasn’t telling Rogers that.

“So there we are, then,” Flint said.

“There we are, then,” Rogers parroted back, unflinching.

They held each other's gaze for a beat.

“Well, Mr. Rogers, I believe this meeting is at its end. You’ve certainly given us a lot to consider.”

Beside him, Billy held formation, not a muscle out of place. Rogers looked between the two of them and got up.

“Let me be clear, Mr. Flint—this offer is final. My client is willing to be done with this one way or another. Please consider that.”

 

¥¥¥

 

It was in a fugue state that Flint managed to arrive home, close the front door and finally take a long, laboured breath, leaning his forehead against the white wood. After the meeting, both Billy and Gates had given him a wide berth, retreating to their respective corners. Around noon he'd found himself actually alone in the office, as they went for lunch together, further increasing their distance from his dark mood. There was an odd comfort in the predictability of their behaviour, and underneath his currently blinding and indiscriminate vitriol, Flint knew they meant well. This was not a moment of weakness he wished anyone to witness. Not to mention he needed Billy to understand the extent of it as little as possible but still remain confident. Gates would take care of that. That particular dam should hold for a bit longer. It had to.

He pawed at his neck and undid his tie and the top buttons of his shirt. When was the last time he'd worn a tie for a joyous occasion? These days it always felt like a noose. He needed a drink. He hung the tie on the coat hanger and a metallic sound had him looking up. Peanut's collar.

Flint gritted his teeth. Just what he needed! He stalked toward the kitchen, fully intent on unloading his rage on this new and conveniently placed nuisance. His momentum deflated slightly at the empty kitchen, but he soon spotted his target in the garden. The wanker was just sitting there, legs up on the garden table, balancing the chair on its back legs and reading a book, like Flint's house was some public park he could use at his leisure. Flint flung the garden door open.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Flint bellowed, immediately prompting Peanut to start barking.

Silver lost his balance and both him and the chair went arse over tit, landing backwards with a heavy thud and a pained huff. Thankfully, the book landed on his face.

Flint stalked over, hurled Silver off the floor, and snatched the book from his fumbling hands. It was one of his own—an 1861 1st Edition of _Great Expectations_. He had the sudden urge to hit him over the head with it, so he placed it on the table. "My house isn't your fucking private lounge!"

Silver winced and rubbed his lower back. "Sorry! I was just…” His eyes shifted toward Flint’s hand around his arm. “No need to manhandle me,” he purred, all bated breath and hooded eyes.

Silver’s naked arm suddenly felt furnace-hot under Flint’s hand, and his fingers tightened reflexively. He felt his body respond, and it did nothing for his present frustration. He was in no mood for games.

“Oh God, will you just stop.” He sounded exhausted even to his own ears.

“Stop what?” Silver said, turning his big blue eyes upwards. He was too good at this; too practised. But effective, nevertheless.

Flint further shortened the space between their faces. “You know what,” he growled, breath quickened beyond rage now.

Silver caught his teeth in his lower lip. “Why?” he murmured, leaning closer still.

Flint could feel Silver's breath mingling with his. He wanted to taste it.

He closed his eyes, trying to ground himself. Right now, to retreat from this would be as hard as refusing water in the desert. And he was fucking parched. He was fucking done. He was fucking _gone_.

He surged forward and engulfed Silver's lips in his, eliciting an approving moan. Silver's sheer willingness only spurred him on. His whole body tilted towards Flint's, yielding and accommodating. The headiness of it entranced Flint—of having someone offer themselves over to him like that. The unmistakable and surging message there: take it, take it, _take me_. It’d been driving him nearly mad over the past few months.

He plunged his hands into Silver's hair and pulled him further in. The locks were sinfully silky, just as he’d imagined, and ensnared Flint’s fingers. Silver's tongue searched his out and Flint suddenly tasted coffee and… sweets. He chased the taste all the way, pushing inside Silver's mouth.

With a huff, Flint lifted Silver up from behind his thighs. It was a strain, but he welcomed the burn in his arms, as well as the high pitched moan in his mouth. Silver climbed him obligingly and wrapped his legs around his waist, feet interlocking behind his back. Prize in hand, Flint headed back toward the kitchen. The ominously approaching barking was interrupted by the sound of the garden door slamming shut behind them. Silver huffed a laugh onto his lips at the subsequent thudding. Walking blindly through the kitchen, Flint slammed Silver against the fridge. Silver yelped, so Flint latched onto his neck instead, turning kissing into biting and back again, until his hearing was blanketed by nothing but wet sounds and Silver’s hitching breath. They rubbed against each other in tempo with their tongues for a while, lost in their eagerness.

Flint hiked Silver further up and carried him into the hallway. Silver moaned deeply again, squeezing Flint’s sides with his legs and redoubling his efforts on Flint's lips, halfway to swallowing them. There was no mistaking his delight in being carried around.

Flint settled him on the edge of the dining table. Silver kept kissing him like Flint’s mouth was all he’d ever wanted in life, making his tongue swirl deliciously and with maddening pressure. Flint shoved his hands up Silver’s T-shirt and splayed them over his stomach, enjoying the grooves and planes of hard muscle. How he missed being with a man. He slithered upwards and grazed his fingertips over Silver's nipples. Silver broke the kiss with an open mouthed whimper that had Flint pinching and pulling just to enjoy the way Silver hissed and further arched toward him, the front of his jeans tightly stretched over his arousal.

Silver grazed Flint's neck with his teeth. “God, you feel so good," he moaned into his ear, hot breath sending sparks up and down Flint's body. He groped greedily at Flint’s ass and pressed him closer still. “I want you to fuck me. It's all I can think about since we met.” He started clawing at the junction where Flint's shirt met his trousers, trying to find his way in blindly. “C’mon,” Silver whined.

Flint growled and shoved Silver’s hands away, pressing forward and pulling him under him. The change in position got Silver moaning loudly as Flint's weight rested more fully on him, adding pressure on his erection. Flint's world soon tunnelled into nothing but rutting against the hot hardness underneath him and sucking at Silver’s tongue, faster and faster, until he came with a strangled sound and a blissfully blank mind. Silver wrapped his legs around him tighter while Flint rode the feeling out. He panted against Silver's neck for what felt like a very long time, blood throbbing in his ears. Coming back to himself, he could feel Silver's frantic pulse against his lips. He was strangely still, even though Flint could feel him as hard as ever. Before his mind could start to settle, Flint ran his face down Silver's body, like a man possessed, and yanked at his fly, popping open all the buttons. He gathered some spit and bent to press his mouth against Silver's tented underwear, soaking the soft white cotton and sucking hard at his tip.

"Oh, fuck!" Silver shouted, tilting his head back.

It only took half a dozen needy, shallow thrusts into Flint’s mouth until he felt the burst of warm liquid through the fabric, Silver’s keening in the background. He got back up and watched as Silver laid back on the table, panting and rubbing himself indulgently, a dumb smile plastered on his face.

Flint grew nauseated at the whole scene. The crustiness forming inside his trousers felt like sandpaper. The air was saturated with sweat and spit, and he couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t _breathe_. "Go back to work," Flint heard himself mutter.

Silver barely seemed to register the words, but raised his head. Flint didn't hear his reply though, if any, already heading toward the bathroom. He locked the door and ran the shower. He didn't step in until he heard the front door close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my eternal thanks to my lovely [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com), who, amidst her current condition, still finds it in her to edit this foolishness. 
> 
> Chapter title from A Little Less Conversation by Elvis Presley


	7. It's not just something you take, it's given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where the dog is very disgruntled

Silver prided himself on predicting people's actions pretty well. It was simple enough: people were prone to patterns and tells; you just needed to look out for them. The same reaction to a certain subject or person. An aversion to certain types of behaviours. Are they loud or quiet? Do they move like they own the world or like they're borrowing every inch of ground underneath their feet? Do they stare too long at themselves when they go by a reflective surface? Are they frightened of authority? Deferent? Defiant, perhaps? Everything a person is informs their behaviour, therefore everything a person does tells you who they are. Easy. Useful.

But what happened earlier that day, Silver definitely had not predicted. He’d been certain he was more than chipping away at Flint's defences by that point. There was a rapport growing between them—a push and pull both of them delighted in. He figured it was only a matter of time and pushing back just right. Maybe even get Flint drunk. But that? Being carried off and rutted against until they were both off their heads? Getting efficiently sucked off through his fucking underwear? (He'd figured he'd be the one doing the sucking.) That was unexpected. And not just Flint's sudden rush of passion either, but also the manner of it. Just as Silver had started to get his bearings on the situation and set his mind to the task of making sure he was given as much license as possible, Flint had burnt through that fire, until barely the hot coals of it were left. Once Flint had come, Silver knew it was over, and Flint had wanted to come _bad_. And then the culmination of Silver’s own high octane fire had left him too blissed out to keep his head in the game, and the window of Flint's vulnerability had slipped through his fingers. Or, rather, through Flint's trousers.

He'd just laid there, panting, feeling like he'd been swept up and spat out by a passing hurricane.

When it became clear that Flint was not coming out of the bathroom, he'd composed himself as much as possible and left. Sans Peanut.

Which was why he was currently engaged in kicking his flatmates out of the house.

"Max is staying with a client. And you can stay over at Vane's!"

"What?" Jack squeaked back.

"Well, isn't he your mate?" Silver sneered. "And if you want this to work I need to get Flint to fucking trust me."

"Isn't leaving your dog at his place a little too obvious? I thought you had more sophistication than that."

"Do you want sophistication or expediency?"

Jack stroked his moustache. "Fair point."

Anne came out of their bedroom with a backpack slung over her shoulder, black Man United cap tipped over half her face, as always. "Let's go," she growled Jack's way. And off she went to the door.

For all their differences, Silver had always enjoyed Anne's decisiveness. She wasn't a conversationalist but when something needed doing she just did it, instead of flapping her mouth incessantly, like Jack. Next to him, Silver looked circumspect.

Silver usually talked his way into or out of things. Jack talked as if the world was in dire need of his opinion at all times. About everything. Maybe that’s what it took to distract people into having their pockets picked by Anne.

Silver smirked at Jack. "See? Your better half gets it."

Anne motioned her head towards the door and opened it.

With a downturned mouth, Jack finally acquiesced and disappeared into his room.

Anne eyed him from the end of the hallway, body wedged between the door and the landing. Silver stared back inquisitively but the only reply he got was a slow shake of her head.

“What?” Silver asked, unnerved.

“This all a game to you, innit?”

Before Silver could answer, Jack was out of the room with a bag of his own, leather jacket over his flannel shirt. “Try not to cock this up,” he said.

Silver raised his eyebrow and smirked. Jack rolled his eyes, before following Anne out the door.

Now all Silver had to do was wait. Flint wouldn't last an hour with Peanut.

 

¥¥¥

 

It had been three days. _Three days._ Either Peanut was dead or Flint was dead and Peanut was feasting on his body. He wouldn't put it past that dog to lead a coup and take over the establishment, just so he could sit on the damn sofa.

Somehow an open invitation had turned into a battle of wills. Flint needed a worthy opponent, that much Silver had understood, so capitulating was the last thing on his mind. He'd been invited to play now, so he was playing. There were worse kinds of foreplay. They hadn’t exchanged a single word in three days. And Silver hadn’t gone to the house on Friday either. (Hopefully Peanut wasn't stuck in a box in the garden. Or a shelter. Flint wouldn't do that, would he?)

He was going to bring Flint to heel, no matter what. Making Flint come to him would give him the upper hand for once. At Flint's he was surrounded by all things, well... “Flint”, at least in Silver’s mind.

The Victorian house smelled of the sweet muskiness of old books, dog fur and the kitchen of the moist earth and roses in the garden. And there was an ever-present minty rosemary tang of what Silver now knew intimately to be Flint's perfume or aftershave. Silver always felt his reasoning dull when he was there, the comforting atmosphere of the house falling over him like a soft blanket. The exact opposite of his own humid, greasy flat in Hammersmith. But here, in what felt like the smallest corner of property hell, Flint would be out of his element and in Silver’s. All he had to do was get him through that door and break the symbolic divide between them that Flint wrapped around himself like armour. With the way Flint had touched him that day, powerful and determined (just remembering was getting him half-hard), Silver was certain once he was through that door he’d have him in this bed and then he’d _have_ him.

Silver turned around to face the window, kicking the sheets off his naked body and hugging his extra pillow. Who knew he couldn’t sleep without Peanut anymore?

He stared at the mould-covered wall, under the rotting window sill. He should really bleach that. What could Vane possibly want with his Flint? Jack had been as vague as possible about Vane's "special interest" in Flint. Upon pressing, Silver realised Jack didn't know much more himself. Vane knew Flint from the Navy days, and the bad blood there ran deep. Safe to assume Vane didn't want anything good with Flint then. Whatever it was, Silver just wanted to make sure he wasn't caught in between. Although there was something to be said for wasted opportunities…

Maybe Flint had lost Peanut. That’s why he hadn’t said anything! That damned dog could’ve chewed through the garden fence or dug a hole or jumped out of the window or something. Anne was going to kill him for real this time. Huffing, Silver turned again and tried to erase the image of Peanut, diminutive under the London rain, lost and hungry.

What time was it? 8 am. He could go down and try to nick some fruit from the grocery stands. Get some fresh coffee. He still couldn’t figure out how to make coffee taste good in Jack’s stupid French press.

Someone was knocking. The postman. Max really needed to order less shit online, when she could never be bothered to go and actually open the door to receive them in the morning. She wasn’t here now, but that was beside the point.

A second knock.

Silver groaned and grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor, hopping into them on his way to the door. He opened the door and was greeted by the sight of a dishevelled, panting Flint, with a distressed Peanut under his arm, who immediately aggravated his crying and squirming in an attempt to reach Silver. Flint held out the offender in the direction of Silver’s chest, and the dog threw himself at him. Peanut was frantic in Silver’s arms, whining and licking him all over his face and neck. Well, it was nice being missed.

“Your lift is not working,” Flint said.

“Nope,” Silver managed to answer through the onslaught, petting Peanut’s twisting body, trying to get the little guy to calm down.

“He,” Flint said, pointing an accusatory finger at the dog, “cannot climb stairs.”

Silver laughed at the ticklish licks against his ears. “No, you can’t, can you, boy? No, you cannot.” He held Peanut in front of his face and let him lick his nose.

Behind Peanut’s form he could see Flint just standing there, giving off his customary aura of malcontent. Peanut started kicking Silver’s chest: his signal to put him down _now_. Silver watched him scurry off into the flat, showing some confusion at the absence of the other inhabitants. He barked at Silver questioningly.

“You’re welcome,” Flint grumbled behind him.

Silver judged he’d ignored him long enough, so he turned around to face the ginger menace. “What did it?”

“Pardon?”

“What did he do that finally broke you?” Silver crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe.

Flint frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Fine, don't tell me," Silver said, starting to close the door. Much to his delight (and relief), Flint reached out and slammed his palm against it.

"I just crossed town with that fucking thing. Do you have any idea what he did on the Tube?"

Despite himself, Silver burst out laughing. "Oh my god, you took him on the Tube? Oh, you poor sod!"

"I deserve some fucking tea," Flint growled, shoving past him into the flat. Peanut seemed very alarmed by this new development and started barking and chasing after him, toward the kitchen.

Shaking his head and smiling, Silver closed the door behind him, as slowly and as silently as possible. He stood against the cool wood for a few seconds.

Well, that wasn't so hard.

He bit his lower lip and popped open the top two buttons on his jeans.

 

¥¥¥

 

Flint woke up with a startle. There was something cold and humid pressed against his calf. He untangled himself from fabric and limbs and sat up. There was movement at the foot of the bed, underneath the grey sheets.

"What the fuck?" Flint’s voice echoed in the silence of the bedroom.

The body next to him groaned. "Wha?" Silver garbled. He was laying face down, brown curls spilled over the pillow and covering most of his face. He turned to look over his shoulder. "Oh, that's just Peanut trying to get in bed. It's fine," Silver rasped, and plonked his face back on the pillow.

"It's most certainly _not_ fine," Flint answered. He pushed the sheet off their naked bodies to find the interloper.

Silver let out a feeble complaint.

Peanut, for his part, looked at Flint with a face that seemed to say "oh, thank you" and took it as invitation. He started to walk on the bed towards them.

Flint looked on, horrified. He got up and put on his briefs. The brush of the cotton caused a spark of pain, which surprised him. He pulled at the elastic and peered downwards, quickly spotting the reason: a massive purple hickey in his right groin. How had he even...? Nevermind.

He picked the small dog up and took him out of the room. He fixed Peanut with a stern look and a pointed finger and said “no”, closing the door.

There was a snort from the bed.

"Now he's just gonna whine and scratch at the door until we let him in," Silver said.

Flint turned and couldn't help running his eyes over Silver's naked body, fixing his gaze on his bottom and slightly spread thighs. It reminded his brain of his morning wood. And peeing. Where was the bathroom again? "He'll get over it," Flint replied.

"He will _not_ get over it. He will do that for hours," Silver explained, still mostly motionless in bed. "Fuck, for all I know he'll do it forever. I never tested it. Just let him in."

As if on cue, Peanut started the announced performance—scratching at the bottom of the door and pressing his snout to the small gap between the door and the floor, ensuring his high pitched whining had its full effect.

Flint groaned, threw the door open, and picked up the creature. He walked through the flat's unfamiliar hallway. There wasn't much to it so he found what he was looking for quickly. He settled Peanut in his own bed in the small kitchen.

"Stay," he commanded, as sternly as he could muster. He didn't hold out much hope, but at least from here they probably wouldn't hear him. Or be interrupted, his rising libido added quickly.

He closed the kitchen door.

After relieving himself in the even smaller bathroom—he'd forgotten how much he hated London flats—he returned to Silver.

Looking at him, splayed out on the bed, all nervous energy and incessant chatter gone, golden shoulder blades rising and falling with deep breaths, it was hard not to ascribe to Silver a sleuth of saccharine adjectives that Flint was nowhere near comfortable with. It had been too long. And his heart was too prone to fancy. In the back of his brain he was already wondering “why Silver?”, when all others and all else had failed. Not to mention he was hard again.

"Did you lock him in the kitchen?" Silver asked, voice muffled.

From Silver's weary tone, Flint could tell that had also been a mistake.

Silver whined into his pillow and actually banged his feet against the mattress. "Now he's gonna take revenge and piss everywhere and gnaw on whatever he can find!"

Flint lunged toward the bed and covered Silver's body with his own. Silver was startled for a second but soon relaxed, rubbing his forehead on the pillow and parting his thighs further to allow Flint to settle between them.

"Let him," Flint growled in his ear.

Silver turned his face to speak. "Easy to say when it's not your house," he complained but bared his neck in invitation and adjusted until Flint's covered length was nestled between his cheeks.

"I'll pay for it," Flint whispered, before running his open mouth over his neck, pushing his beard against it. Silver's whole body trembled beneath him. Whether from what he said or what he did was a question for later.

Flint pressed his tip against the warm hole beckoning him. Under him, Silver sighed, hugging the pillow and making the muscles in his arms bulge, gorgeous under the sunlight. He pressed back encouragingly. The cotton between them allowed Flint to push just hard enough to get the right amount of friction and pressure going without breaching.

"That's one way of getting me to agree..." Silver huffed out.

Even half-asleep and pressed against the bed with a dick on him he wouldn't shut up. Flint was beginning to view it as challenge. He bit down on his neck and sucked. Silver whimpered and rubbed back against him more urgently. Flint groaned. He felt like a teenager all over again. Rubbing himself on Silver anywhere he could find, constantly on the verge of coming. It was dangerously addictive.

He shifted his weight onto his forearms and knees, trapping Silver’s arms between his own, wanting to feel the smooth skin and muscle there. He started rubbing himself against the patch just below the hole. That finally got him the loud and wanton moaning he was looking for. If the last few hours were any indication, Silver didn't seem to possess any sense of shame.

_Know no shame._

The panic hit his chest like a train. Thomas flooded his brain. His voice, his taste, his laughter, the perfect slotting of their bodies. Flint flipped himself onto the other side of the bed.

Silver turned on his side, all flushed cheeks and a tight knit brow. "You alright?"

He reached down and squeezed himself absentmindedly, and Flint was off the bed like it was on fire.

"You're probably right about the dog," Flint said, back turned towards the bed.

He collected his trousers and shirt on the way out of the room and closed the door behind him. He hurried to open the kitchen door, and Peanut was out like a rocket, but Flint dodged him and locked himself in the bathroom. He splashed his face with cold water, hoping to stave off the nausea. He shouldn’t have come here. The room was spinning around him and he tried to steady his breathing and focus on one of the cracks in the tiled floor.

After a few minutes, he got dressed and composed himself in the mirror, his pulse beating louder and louder in his ears. He took a deep breath, opened the bathroom door and made his way to the bedroom at the end of the hall, pushing the slightly ajar door fully open.

He walked in to see Silver still in bed, but now with the addition of Peanut snuggled by his ribcage, proud in his rightful place and enjoying being petted behind his floppy ears.

"I have to go," Flint said, putting his shoes on, thankfully discarded just by the door earlier. His socks were not worth the trouble of staying here for a minute longer than necessary.

"I figured," Silver said. His face was touched by the usual hint of a smile, like a drawn stage curtain. It left an unexpected rancid taste on Flint's tongue.

It struck him that he wanted to be asked to stay. He didn't want to stay—he just wanted Silver to _ask_ him to. He wanted to be the focus of his wishes and wants; the kindle behind the fire that melted Silver's mask. He wanted the needy man underneath him just a few hours ago. He wanted. He felt it course through his whole body. God, how he wanted. It had been such a long time since he'd felt like this. He was startled to realise he didn’t regret coming to Silver. His mind wasn’t sure how to deal with it yet, but he wanted what Silver was offering—the fire of it illuminated the long-standing, stifling darkness he’d grown accustomed to. And now that he’d remembered the taste of light, he was reluctant to let it go. It made him greedy again.

Overwhelmed and emboldened by the realisation (and probably more than a little lightheaded), he stepped towards the bed. Silver’s face changed instantly, to a far more pleased look of surprise. Flint rather enjoyed throwing his cocky grin off kilter. He knelt on the bed and, ignoring the low rumble of Peanut’s disapproval, reached for Silver’s curls and pulled him in for a deep kiss. He held onto him until he felt it was enough to leave with, leaving them both gasping for air. Silver looked stunned, mouth still hanging open.

“I expect Neptune to be walked tomorrow, you shit,” Flint said.

Silver’s glistening lips tempted Flint back in for one last peck, before he was off the bed and out of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always and always, I want to thank and hug and kiss and send a fruit basket to [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com), for her divine editing work and for her time, in such a crucial moment of her own life. I can't wait! By next chapter the world will be very different :D 
> 
> I've also decided that, in comemoration of the fic reaching over 100 kudos and 1000 hits, I wanna share with you guys my [tumblr](http://parrotsinlondon.tumblr.com/).  
> I know a lot of you are on it and some really enjoy my fic, so here we are. That is I.  
> Some of you probably seen me around :p  
> My thanks to [ellelan](http://ellelan.tumblr.com/) for respecting my wishes on this (I am very shy about my writing [very little else though XD]) and for always letting me know when you guys were posting stuff out there about my fic. It's just an amazing encouragement for me! And so is she! :)
> 
> That being said, it may be a little bit (next month probably) until the next chapter as, currently, things in my life are... challenging. Bear with me. 
> 
> Chapter title from Stay by Rihanna feat. Mikky Ekko
> 
> As always feedback not necessary but appreciated.
> 
> PS. This whole chapter is basically the equivalent in canon to Flint's "Come on" to Silver, in Eleanor's office XD


	8. Such a pity, a boy so pretty with an ugly heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one on the edge

John Silver was going to die. He was certain of it, as his grip tightened on the back of the chair he was sitting on, feet hooked behind its polished legs and straining against the wood. He never thought he'd die like this but, all things considered, there were far worse ways of going.

He could feel the sweat sliding over his skin in a steady, lazy stream that cooled the parts of his body he could still feel. His thighs were gone, beyond cramping, defeated by the labour of the last... what, hour? Or maybe year. Did time in purgatory go faster or slower?

He dropped his head back and whined again—no, not whined, cried. He had been crying for the past ten minutes, at least. The tears and sweat pooled in his ears. He hadn't cried since... he couldn't remember when.

The clarity of sharp pain brought him back—the scrape of a nail in the tenderest of places. He straightened back up to look into green eyes, trying his best to focus.

"Are you with me?"

The scalding hand wrapped around his base squeezed harder before returning to its languid stroking, the slick sound of lube accompanying it.

"Yes," Silver breathed out.

"Good," Flint replied from his seat opposite Silver. He began running his thumb up the underside of Silver's cock, pressing harder and harder, while his other hand massaged his balls gingerly, alleviating some of the pressure. In the back of his mind, Silver wondered if showing Flint up was _literally_ worth the dog's bollocks.

'An exercise in self-control' he'd called it, right after enquiring about Silver's willingness to be tied up. Right now he very much wished he'd said yes. At least that way he didn't have to deny Flint _and_ himself. But Flint had already known Silver's answer before posing the question; he was no more likely to let himself be restrained than Flint was. So this was a delicious trap, frosted with glistening challenge, all propped up for Silver to bite into it. And bite he did. And now he was going to choke on it and die blissfully high on his own unfulfilled pleasure.

"Please..." he begged, inching his face closer to Flint's. By now the word had lost all meaning, except it was the only thing he seemed to be able to say. The only word in the English language he knew. Well, that one and—

"Flint..."

He managed to catch a glimpse of the tell-tale predatory smile, before Flint lowered his head to join his mouth to the onslaught once more. Silver's moaning went an octave higher. To his own ears he sounded ridiculous—like a man being subject to some unspeakable torture. Well, fuck you, Flint. Let's see what the neighbours think, too.

Flint’s hands pulled Silver forward and prompted him to spread his legs. There was an indeterminate number of fingers in him now and Flint was working him over with his mouth like some ancient devouring god. Planting his feet on the ground, Silver arched off the chair, moaning in cadence with each thrust of Flint’s fingers. In a valiant effort to deliver him, his aching hips started back up, pumping into Flint's gluttonous mouth and doing a magnificent job on his fingers as well. If he could just...

“Oh God, oh God, oh God...”

After a long and slow suck, with teeth raking all the way up, Flint deprived him once more, leaving him thrusting into empty air.

Silver crashed back onto the chair. "Oh, you fuck!" he shouted as loud as he could, which wasn't much.

Flint laughed, a low, deep rumble that made Silver’s diaphragm tighten, and palmed himself loosely over his grey track bottoms, enlarging the wet spot there. Was he made of stone?

Silver bowed his head and became momentarily fascinated by the beads of sweat spiralling off his hair onto the floor. "Gingers really are soulless," he snickered.

Flint kneaded Silver's thighs with his knuckles, restoring some feeling to them in the form of fervid tingling. Silver’s deep exhale reverberated into a full-body tremor.

"You know you can end this any time..." Flint leaned forward and settled his wet, sticky hands over Silver's. "All you have to do is finish yourself off," Flint whispered into his ear. "Come on." He rubbed Silver's hands all over and started moving their grip on the chair posts up and down.

Silver was hit by a surge of giddiness over the ridiculousness of the lewd gesture, but any quip attempting to escape his throat was swallowed by the unbelievable effect the pumping motion was actually having on him.

"It's okay," Flint whispered hotly into his ear. "Let go."

Silver leaned his head on Flint’s naked shoulder. The words left him feeling weightless, awash in contentment. To his ears, it sounded alarmingly close to permission. And since when was he into that?

He hiccuped a sigh and let his hands slide toward his lap. With his eyes closed, he felt Flint kneel in front of him. Oh god, he was sucking on his fingers now, the air from his nose blowing a steady caress over Silver's wet, abused flesh.

The last thread of reason in him told him this might be a game he wanted to lose. For many reasons. He'd put up a brave fight, but now... He let his right hand slide off Flint's mouth. Now was not the time to contradict Flint's low opinion of him.

"Guess I'm not 'a good boy', huh?"

Flint’s silent laugh ghosted over his dick again, and Silver's eyes rolled into the back of his head with the newly found intensity of under-stimulation after such an endless and unrelenting assault.

He grabbed himself, began stroking, and was immediately awash with that exquisitely enjoyable pain of knowing relief is but a second away. His gratified smile was smothered moments later by Flint's lips on his. The exhilarating mixture of the taste of his reward hit his tongue and he convulsed in release, all sound swallowed by Flint's mouth.

 

"You know he’s lying, right? About the money," Silver said.

He flipped onto his belly and propped himself up on his elbows on the mattress.

Flint closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to steady himself back to conversation mode. He was having such a nice rest. "What?" Flint snapped.

Silver scooched closer to him in bed, warming Flint's naked skin with his own. Silver was always so hot, as if all his energy kept him perpetually burning a fever. Always on.

"This guy in the statement," Silver clarified. "He has it."

Ah, the fraud case. "Why the fuck are you going through my things?"

"Oh, come on. It was right there, on the kitchen counter. I just skimmed it. You're a terrible lawyer for leaving that stuff just lying around, by the way."

Behind closed eyelids, Flint rolled his eyes.

"It’s the way he talks about it," Silver carried on. "He always says 'the money'."

Okay, clearly this talking business was not going to sort itself out. Flint opened his eyes but remained otherwise motionless, staring blindly at the ceiling. "What are you talking about?"

Silver sat up, searching Flint's gaze. "He always refers to it as 'the money'. Not 'this money' or 'that money', or even 'the missing money'," he explained, suddenly animated. "It sounds like he's talking about something of his."

Flint frowned.

"They should've told him to always refer to it as "this money", which distances him from it, like it’s an abstract concept in his mind. 'The money' implies he's either had it at some point or still does," Silver said.

He seemed very proud of himself, looking at Flint expectantly.

Flint sighed and draped his arm over his eyes. "That makes no fucking sense."

"If you say so," Silver said, in a tone Flint could almost label as 'disappointed'.

For a few minutes, silence reigned between them again.

"Don't look into his family or friends. They won't have it. Not even any lovers. Not if he's smart, anyway."

Intrigued despite his better judgement, Flint finally turned to look at Silver and provide him with the audience he so revelled in.

Silver smiled, sparks igniting his blue eyes. "It won't be someone from his inner circle. It'll be someone he can trust, though. Someone as mixed up in this as him."

"An accomplice," Flint said, stroking his beard.

"A colleague. Or, most likely— "

"A client," Flint finished.

Silver's manic grin went straight to Flint's cock, and he couldn’t help smirking back. He had half a mind to pin Silver against the bed and fuck him all over again. Sensing the shift in mood, Silver reached for his chest. However, Flint was loath to reward this particular behaviour.

"I need to go to work," Flint said, getting off the bed. "And so do you. You still have that, right? Or has this become your main occupation now?"

The words made him flinch internally. He could almost sense Miranda's displeasure, all the way across London. Still, he didn't turn to look back.

"You suggesting a career change? That good, huh?" Silver shot back.

Flint could practically hear Silver beaming; stretching lazily on the bed, languid and indulgent like a impudent alley cat, toes curling and back arching into that perfect angle.

“Well, you are a terrible dog walker…” Flint teased, from the bathroom doorway.

A bundled up black sock flew past his head.

Flint bit back a laugh. Always on.

 

¥¥¥

 

"I told you to come alone!" Silver hissed.

"You don't tell me anything," Vane replied, pushing Silver out of the way. His two thugs followed suit. Ex-military, from the looks of it.

"Anything about the suit or the Lord's son. You know what to look for. And find me her location," Vane instructed them.

Outside, in the garden, Neptune howled in alarm.

"What part of 'inconspicuous' did you not understand?” Silver asked. “This will reach Flint's ears in two seconds if the neighbours saw you!"

"Not my problem," Charles said, taking a long drag off his cigarette.

"Put that out!" Silver pulled the cigarette out of Vane's mouth. "Flint doesn't smoke."

Vane grabbed his hand and twisted it painfully, squeezing it around the lit cigarette. Silver screamed as it scorched his skin and tried desperately to pull free.

"What part of 'I'll kill you both' did _you_ not understand?" Vane growled. He released him with a jerk. "Now shut the fuck up and make yourself useful. Find me Eleanor Guthrie."

For once, Silver's mouth fell open and not a sound came out of it.

Oh, hell.

 

¥¥¥

Flint arrived at his office with a distinct pep in his step. Of course, the immediate effect of this realisation was the disappearance of said pep. He was letting his mood be continuously swayed by Silver, and that was a slippery slope. The sex was a very welcome addition to his life, no question about it. Silver was almost too much to handle, if he was being honest. Flint was no spring chicken, as that shit so often enjoyed reminding him, usually amidst riding Flint to within an inch of his sanity (Are you all right there, Mr. Flint? Do you need your heart medicine?). Flint would usually indulge him, gladly ‘teaching’ Silver a lesson in shutting up by way of mattress to the face. Today had been an especially fun lesson to teach. To see Silver _willingly_ undone like that—open and raw, devoid of all that veneer he so carefully applied to himself. Fucking was a good substitute for actual surrender. I'll give you everything. I'll do anything. Not really, but close enough. I will surrender what I can. It was the closest Flint could come to know Silver. And him Flint.

There was that pep again.

He finished climbing the stairs to the third floor. Gates gave him a look in greeting that, lately, always felt like he knew exactly what Flint had been doing. It did not sit well with Flint.

“I got the record you requested from our constable friend,” Gates said, extending a few sheets of paper.

No picture. Good.

“Who is he?” Gates asked, settling back on his chair. ”His name isn’t familiar…”  He crossed his hands in front of his substantial belly and levelled that look, over his glasses, at Flint again.

Flint shrugged. “Just a favour for a friend,” he said.

Gates made a non-committal noise. “Well, your friend has a handful right there. This John Silver bloke, which the police are none too certain is his actual name, is quite a piece of work.”

Flint skimmed the pages, right eyebrow rising as he progressed.

Apparently so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank my friend [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com), who is kind enough to still find time for this nonsense and goes above and beyond in her editor duties. You are awesome. An amazon I tell ya! 
> 
> Sorry this took so long guys but life has been sucker punching me - too many problems and not enough dogs (or Silvers).
> 
> Title from Ugly Heart by G.R.L.


	9. Tell me where you've been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where it all starts to make sense

"Max!"

Silver got no response.

He closed the door to their flat more forcefully than usual, swatting Peanut out of his way. "Max!"

She came out of their bathroom, still wearing one of her 'work outfits'—her short black and canary yellow dress. "Yes?" she asked, taking off her long, sparkling earrings.

Silver crossed the distance between them. "Tell me this isn't about her. Tell me you didn't know."

Max's brow furrowed.

He grabbed her face between his hands and she took a step backwards. "Tell me you don't know where Eleanor is," Silver pleaded.

Max's eyes widened and she slapped his hands off her cheeks. Her face locked into a vague expression of fear while she worked it all out. "He's here for her?" Max pressed a hand against her stomach. " _Mon Dieu_."

Awash with relief, Silver raised his arms in the air. “Yeah, Mon fuckin’ Dieu, alright. I should’ve known. It is _Vane_ , after all.” He gripped his curls. “Seriously, does she have an ice-cream flavoured cunt? I’m honestly asking, at this point.”

Max leaned against the corridor wall, still clutching her midsection, eyes fixed on the cheap linoleum floor. She looked up suddenly. “But this means—”

Silver slid down the opposite wall, onto the floor. “Yeah, Flint is _that_ bloke.” He grabbed his hair again and let his head hang heavy against his chest.

“But this man was named McGraw,” Max said. “This cannot be the same person.” Her eyes moved wildly as she tried to lie to herself out of the realisation.

Silver snorted and gave her an incredulous look. “Really?”

Max’s expression turned vicious. “ _Je n’y crois pas._ You should’ve figured this out. _Tu es vraiment un crétin!_ ” She stormed off into her room.

Silver didn’t need to understand that much French to know what she’d called him. He was pretty certain it was the equivalent of what he’d been calling himself all the way home, feeling the sting of the cigarette burn in his right palm.

Of all the cocks… Eleanor Guthrie’s godfather. Silver banged the back of his head against the wall.

They were royally fucked. Or at least he was. For all he knew, Max was packing her bags this very moment. That wasn’t true; he knew that the second the thought materialized. But he also knew that, in her place, that’s exactly what he’d be doing, no qualms about it. He leaned to peek through the half open door of Max’s room. He couldn’t see Max, but the still-open door told him he only needed to wait a few moments before they were cheek to cheek, reasoning their way through this new development.

He took a deep, steadying breath. Peanut emerged from the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, looking equal parts offended and sheepish. He’d scurried into the kitchen at Silver’s not-so-gentle shooing. Silver offered him an inviting smile, and instantly Peanut ran toward him, tail wagging. He stopped under Silver’s bent legs and looked up at him, big glistening eyes questioning his earlier behaviour.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry,” Silver cooed.

He petted Peanut’s head and the little dog started turning around in place, finally settling down, with a rather pompous huff, against Silver’s crotch. Silver laughed and petted him again. Royal pardon granted.

Max was right. He ought to have figured out the simple truth of Flint's relevance to Vane. The Navy past between the two; Vane's willingness to let go of such a loss as what Silver and Max had inflicted on him (Max's being doubly so, considering her affair with Eleanor) just for access to Flint's house; the vivid picture Max had painted to him, all those years ago, of a strict military higher-up who'd managed to not only dismantle Vane and Eleanor's extremely lucrative smuggling operation, but also get her to ultimately give up Vane's whereabouts, sparing her a court martial only in the face of his role as her godfather. Max used to say Eleanor trusted and feared no one like she did him.

Max. Silver's gaze shifted from Peanut to her bedroom. She hadn't seen Eleanor since the whole diamond debacle. It had been painful to watch. This was probably fucking with her head a lot more than with his. Still, he was the one fucking the man who, if the tale was true, had very nearly managed to kill Charles Vane once. The same Charles Vane wanted by Scotland Yard and Interpol for, among other colourful activities, a half a dozen murders.

He should've figured it out, and no amount of layers of denial would keep him from the knowledge of why he hadn't—he'd been having too much fun. Enough fun apparently to turn off some pretty ingrained mental fail-safes. He'd been blindsided.

Max emerged from the room in her floral satin robe and leaned against the door. "You should end it," she suggested, while her heavily made-up brown eyes issued an ultimatum.

Silver pretended right along with her that it wasn't one.

"The sooner the better," he said, scratching the skin around the burn blister. "I just need to make sure Vane has got enough to leave us alone."

Max hummed in acknowledgment, glancing briefly at his hand. She looked sad. Silver understood why she was projecting on him, even if their losses and choices were nothing alike. She always did like to give him much more sentimentality than he actually possessed. He gave her a knowing smirk, meant to reassure her or at least spark up irritation and break her out of her nostalgia. She shook her head and ruffled his curls a little too harshly, on her way to the kitchen. Between his legs, Peanut had fallen asleep.

John Silver... yet to meet a creature who could resist his charm.

Apart from Vane. Who had been looking for something about a case and a Lord’s son. And who didn’t seem to have found much, by his face and the overabundance of air they’d left with. Flint was working on something important, it would seem. But whatever it was, the meaty bits were probably in his office. Or his laptop.

 

¥¥¥

 

Flint was in a good mood. As much as Miranda teased him about it, that was still, occasionally, possible.

He cut methodically into the raw lamb shank.

They’d managed to land a very good deal in the fraud case, once they’d figured out that a client of the bloke—a sixty-five-year-old florist, of all people—was in on the scheme. She’d given him up in a heartbeat. She’d also been growing weed in her greenhouse. Flint chuckled to himself. Midway through getting her testimony, surrounded by cats and cross stitch throw pillows, he’d had the urge to nick some of the weed lying around for Silver. If he had some tonight, Flint might even be amenable to the notion of smoking it with him, as Silver constantly suggested.

He started putting sprigs of rosemary into the small cuts along the meat.

He had, however, taken something else from the old lady’s house. As they were leaving, she’d offered them the pick of her latest litter of kittens. Billy had recoiled immediately, having spent the best part of the visit sneezing and crying.

Flint had wanted to say no, really, as he almost always wanted to with everything, but then he’d thought of Miranda. And then, inevitably, of Thomas. He’d once said there was something of a witch about Miranda, managing to enthral and ensnare two such fine specimens of Kinsey 5 homosexual behaviour as themselves. She’d retorted, smiling devilishly, that she was not to blame if she was more fascinating than both of them combined. That afternoon the three of them had indulged in something new. She did have a bit of a witch about her. And any respectable witch needed a black cat.

Which was why one such creature was looking up at him from a blanket on the floor, meowing urgently at the intense smells of his cooking. Flint sliced the smallest of lamb shreds and tossed it at the kitten, who wobbled its way over and munched on it eagerly, its miniscule pearly white canines sinking into the purple flesh. Through the garden door, Neptune stared at them accusingly.

Flint looked at the kitchen clock. Silver should be here soon.

He hadn’t called to make a formal invitation of any sort. He’d just texted Silver to come over and received a speedy confirmation. Silver was always eager to spend the night, as Flint rarely let happen, and he knew an invitation at this time was bound to end up with him staying over. Flint felt rather magnanimous about the whole thing. Miranda’s voice entered the back of his mind and whispered that ‘magnanimous’ wasn’t the word he was looking for.

He focused on getting the lamb shanks into the oven and on not stepping on the kitten on his way there.

 

Silver put on his best dazzling smile and, holding Peanut's restless form tightly, waited for Flint to open the door. They hadn't seen each other in a week, by Silver's own device. There had been the vague mention of the flu over a few texts, and that was all it took to keep Flint at bay. Nothing killed a boner like the image of a lover trying to decide whether to prioritise vomit or diarrhoea. Half-way through the week, and still not having heard back from Vane, Silver had decided a dick pic was in order, just to keep Flint on his toes. He'd gotten a very angry, all-caps-lock text back, about how Flint was in a meeting. Five minutes later a very different kind of text had followed ('Are you touching yourself?').

Today's message was unexpected, though, and unexpected was Silver's least favourite thing, especially of late. Equally as unexpected had been his reaction, messaging Flint back immediately, like some schoolboy with a crush. He'd blinked at his own text message for a while after that.

It was still early in the week, when Silver had decided to embrace the fact that he actually missed Flint. The intensity of it had rattled him but, all things considered, nothing too out of the ordinary, given how pleasant it was to get regularly fucked by another intelligent human being. The body is nothing if not self-indulgent, and Flint was a remarkable lay. (The blessing of older men.)

So he was willing to admit he was... eager. But other things took precedence, and the pen drive Vane had handed him was burning a hole in the pocket of his jeans. He was supposed to plug it into Flint's laptop, and the thing would clone his hard-drive. Silver had no illusions of achieving sci-fi speeds, so he was going to have to do it while Flint slept. He was a light sleeper, too, often tossing and turning through nightmares. Lately he'd been better, though, which Silver secretly congratulated himself (and their increasing bedroom acrobatics) for. His whole body thrummed with trepidation. After tonight it would all be over.

The door opened, but he hardly saw Flint, already walking back toward the kitchen. Silver settled Peanut on the floor, letting him run after him. Something was cooking and it smelled amazing. He took off his bomber jacket and hung it on the rack, and the feeling of domesticity hit him like a wave of nausea.

"Peanut, no!" Flint yelled.

That fucking dog. Silver sprinted to the kitchen, an apology already half formed on his tongue.

Flint was holding Peanut by the scruff of his neck and pointing a wooden spoon at him. Peanut looked overtly excited.

"No," Flint said, sternly.

"Hey, hey." Silver took Peanut from Flint. “Is this how you treated him when he was your guest?" The dog tried to escape Silver's hold immediately.

"He was scaring the cat," Flint replied, moving behind his kitchen island.

"The cat?" Silver asked. "What cat?"

Flint dropped to the floor, disappearing behind the black granite. He emerged with a hand overflowing with black fur.

"This cat," Flint said, depositing the fur ball in the pocket of his white apron.

Silver knew his eyes were bulging out. Flint had a kitten hanging from the pocket of his apron. Flint was wearing an apron. Flint was cooking. Flint was cooking for _him_.

"Am I in the wrong house?" Silver quipped, looking all around. He felt something dangerously akin to hysteria start to bubble up inside him. This was the man that had faced off against Vane.

Flint's frown could not disguise his reddening cheeks. He cleared his throat and busied himself with chopping the peeled potatoes on the counter. "Keep it up and you will be."

Silver took Peanut to the garden. Outside it was already dark, the available daylight dwindling every day, as the last days of summer went by. Neptune was excited to see Peanut, and they started chasing each other across the grass.

"What's that menace doing here anyway? I don't recall inviting him over."

"There was no one home. You know the deal. I can't afford for our deposit to go into actual negative numbers," Silver replied. “Why do you have a cat? Do I have to take care of it, too, now?”

“It’s Miranda’s cat.”

Silver made a vague noise of assent. There was too much input to process at the moment, so he focused on one goal at a time. He walked over and hugged Flint's waist from behind. The gesture settled something in Silver he hadn’t even known was out of place to begin with. Flint gasped almost inaudibly and went very still. This kind of thing was not how it went between them, at all. Silver nibbled his earlobe and Flint exhaled the breath he'd been holding.

"Dinner smells delicious," Silver said, letting his hands slide downwards. "And so do you, Mr. Flint."

Flint grunted and his body relaxed fully, leaning ever so slightly against Silver’s. Almost there. Silver kissed his neck and slipped his hand into the apron pocket. He snatched the cat and spun away from Flint, who nearly tripped backwards.

"Hello, beautiful," Silver whispered at the kitten, bringing it up to his face. The tiny thing was warm and sleep-addled and grabbed for Silver's neck, trying to burrow in his curls. Silver let it settle there, keeping a hand on it.

He looked at Flint, smiled, and leaned his head against the kitten, knowing he looked every bit as adorable as he thought he did.

Flint nearly succeeded in keeping up his glare but eventually let a smile creep in, rolling his eyes. He got back to his potatoes.

"I'm going to introduce him to the boys," Silver suggested.

"Her. It's a female," Flint clarified. "And you most certainly will not. She's too small. Peanut nearly frightened her to death."

"That's because Peanut was too excited. And you were yelling. I'm sure that settled her nerves." Silver said. The kitten was purring against his neck now. It reverberated pleasantly through his whole body, relaxing him a bit. "Peanut has never hurt anything," Silver said.

Flint gave him a questioning look on his way to the hob with the pot of potatoes.

"Alive," Silver stressed. "He's too chicken. And Neptune is so calm. I'm sure they'll behave with me there."

Feeling stifled by the intimacy of the whole scene, Silver walked into the garden, before Flint could voice any more protests.

 

The introductions had gone relatively well. Flint had watched wearily from the kitchen as Silver settled the cat on the grass in front of an expectant Peanut and Neptune. The mutt had predictably started barking and circling the cat. Their second meeting had gone a little differently, though.

Even as Silver chastised Peanut, the cat had hissed, her back fur raised, and she'd lashed out with one of her baby claws, hitting the dog square on the snout. Peanut had reeled back with a whimper, and Flint had laughed along with Silver. Neptune, on the other hand, had been distantly curious, sniffing and observing. After some time, he’d joined in careful play tapping with her, adjusting his movements with a delicacy Flint hadn't witnessed before.

Like the child he was, Silver had played with them until dinner was all but served.

At dinner there had been a lot more moaning than Flint had expected. Silver’s compliments had been over the top, to say the least, and Flint had vowed to never cook for him again while silently delighting in his enjoyment. Silver just had a special way of ruining everything with his mouth. (Well, not _everything._ ) Flint had then made the mistake of telling him about the resolution of the fraud case.

“I’m sorry. Are you saying I was… _right_?” Silver put his hand on his chest theatrically, mouth agape.

Flint glared.

“Come on, you can say it, can’t you?” Silver teased.

Flint got up and started collecting the plates.

Silver snorted. “How about we make a deal?” He took something out of his pocket. “You say I was right, and I won’t show anyone this picture of you looking like the most adorable hippie in the world.” Silver held up a photograph.

It was Flint, Miranda and Thomas, in a candid that someone had taken of them at a party. Miranda was smiling. Back then, she’d had brown hair nearly to her waist and an ever-present cigarette between her fingers. Thomas was holding her hand, leaning toward Flint, and laughing at something—his eyes were closed and his face crinkled. It had been something Flint had said; he couldn’t remember what. Flint, with a ponytail and full beard, was smiling through a look of surprise. It must’ve been right after he left the Navy. They all looked so happy. Thomas’s other hand rested on Flint’s thigh.

Flint felt overwhelmed by a surge of conflicting emotions. He settled the plates on the table with a heavy thud and chose rage by default. “Where the fuck did you find that?”

Silver’s smile faltered for a second, but he steadied it just in time. “It was in one of the books I borrowed. And I’m afraid it was too good not to keep.” He leaned back in the chair and fanned himself with the photo, legs parting invitingly.

Flint took a deep breath, relief flooding his body. It was just another game. He was okay. He leaned forward to snatch the picture, but Silver was too fast for him.

“Give me that, you shit,” Flint growled. He matched the mischief in Silver’s eyes and the tone of the game was set.

Silver rounded the table in the opposite direction. “That’s not very nice. And it’s not what I want to hear.”

Flint had had his fair share of wine at that point—they both had—so his next decision seemed perfectly reasonable. Plus, a part of him wanted to hurt Silver for his unintentional callousness. He looked around for the cat and spotted her safely sleeping in her blanket on the sofa. He launched after Silver, who looked absolutely terrified for a second. He tried getting away, but Flint managed to tackle him face first onto the floor with a loud bang that had the cat dashing behind the pillows and the dogs outside in an uproar. He reached for the photo, but Silver quickly laid on it. Flint straddled Silver’s ass and leaned down.

“If you ruin that photo, I’m going to be very cross,” he whispered hotly in Silver’s ear.

Under him, Silver shivered. “Come on, just say it. ‘Silver, you absolute genius, you were right.’”

Worried about damaging the photo, Flint opted for a new tactic. He rubbed himself against Silver’s ass and was rewarded with a breathy moan and Silver trying to lift his bum higher. But then Silver flipped under him, nearly kneeing him in the groin, and threw off his balance.

“You can’t always get me to do what you want like that, you know?” Silver teased, curls in disarray.

“Since when can I get you to do anything?” Flint scoffed, arching an eyebrow. He bent toward Silver’s face.

“Touché.” Silver leaned into the kiss but turned his face away at the last moment to look at the photo still in his hand. “Seriously, what happened there? You look like that fat Italian chef on TV. Wait! Is that your cooking secret? You were his protégé!”

“The late 90s were… confusing,” Flint confessed. There was so much more truth in that sentence than Silver could ever imagine.

“I bet,” Silver teased.

Flint finally snatched the photo and sat back, leaning against Silver’s raised knees. He stared at it.

“You look happy,” Silver said, sounding almost reverent.

Flint felt an unexpected pang of guilt. “We were,” he murmured, still looking at the image. His memory couldn’t settle on the day the picture was taken. When had it been? For a breathless moment it was all that seemed to matter in the world. He narrowed his eyes at the photo. When?

“Where are you?” Silver asked.

“What?” Flint snapped back.

Silver got up onto his elbows. “Tell me where you went just there. Tell me what happened,” Silver asked softly, as if Flint was a spooked horse. He ran a gentle hand over Flint’s thigh.

Flint put the photo on the coffee table. He grabbed Silver’s hand, squeezed it and slid it towards his groin. “Silver, you absolute genius, you were right,” Flint murmured, and leaned down to kiss him.

 

Flint was snoring louder than Peanut, so Silver thought it safe enough to venture outside the bedroom. He’d made Flint come three times, just to be sure. He should, for all intents and purposes, be dead to the world. Silver had fought through his own sleepy haze, mostly by honing in on the uneasiness he’d felt throughout the night. He slipped out of bed, picked up his clothes, and walked silently toward the door. Flint’s laptop was still in the living room.

He prayed to all he didn't believe in that the dogs wouldn’t kick up a fuss. These days, Peanut shared the doghouse outside with Neptune (he’d hounded Flint endlessly to tell him exactly _how_ he’d managed to get Peanut to do that, only to receive the same answer every time: discipline), so if one got up, so would the other. Not to mention the extra cat in her pet carrier.

Silver dressed while he waited for the screen to come to life. Flint’s laptop was password protected, but that wasn’t really a problem for Silver. Not with a man who used some variation of ‘Marcus Aurelius’ for all his bloody passwords. Yes, including the numeric ones. Leave it to Flint to excel at being pretentious and daft simultaneously.

The desktop came into view. Who keeps the default background? Silver hesitated for a moment, pen drive in hand. If this went sideways, all he had to do was be out the door before Flint could make sense of what was happening. It was a calculated risk. Silver closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. The outcome was greater than the investment, and that’s what mattered. Whatever he decided going forward, this information seemed to be key, regardless. He shoved the pen-drive in. There were some OKs to go through, and then the thing finally displayed a progress bar. Twenty minutes? Fuckin’ hell. Time to think was the last thing Silver wanted.

 

Flint woke up to the shrill sound of his mobile ringing and sat up right away. Behind him, Silver shifted in bed, grumbling. What time was it? Daylight was already streaming in through the curtains. Unknown number. Instantaneously, his body ran cold with a familiar and deeply ingrained dread. His pulse pounded in his ears, obliterating everything else in the room. He held the phone for an instant, and for a few heart beats pretended he could really decide not to answer.

“Hello?”

“Flint.”

Eleanor. Flint got up. Something was wrong. She wouldn’t call otherwise.

“Silver is working with Vane,” Eleanor said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the deal, I hate this chapter. Hopefully, you won't feel the same but hey, if you do, I feel you. 
> 
> As always, a million thanks to [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com) for finding the time and the motivation to go through this (frankly huge) chapter and make it sing much better than I ever could. She just makes everything better. Trust me, you guys are reading a lot of her hard work too. 
> 
> Chapter title from I Know What You Did Last Summer, Shawn Mendes & Camilla Cabello 
> 
> No animals were harmed in the making of this chapter.


	10. We’ll be here all day if you start pointing fingers my way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where some truth comes out

Silver’s acute sense of self-preservation told him to get up as soon as Flint did. He’d started moving towards where Flint was standing but stopped himself and turned around to stand on his side of the bed. “Flint?” The line of Flint’s back was rigid, making the multitude of freckles in his back vaguely threatening, like bullet holes on a tin wall.

“Is everyth—”

Before Silver could finish his sentence, Flint moved toward the bedroom door and locked it.

Silver’s heart skipped a beat and he took a step back. He looked about the room and edged toward the lamp on the bedside table.

Flint just stood at the door, naked, blocking Silver’s exit, like a fucking titan of old. “How long have you been working for Vane?” Flint asked, back still turned.

Silver swallowed hard, nearly choking on his own brisk breath. He’d meant to avoid this. He should’ve left after he had the pen drive. Why hadn’t he left? Why? Just so he could enjoy Flint’s weight on him one last time? Well, he’d enjoyed it enough times now to know that there was no way he could break free from it. If Flint pinned him down, he was dead.

“Let me explain,” he said, holding his arms out. It was rather cliché but there was no point in denying the truth now.

Flint remained silent, the speed of his rising and falling shoulders the only barometer for his darkening mood.

“I didn’t know who you were. Or that Vane had anything to do with you,” Silver said, reaching for his jeans. “I owe him something that I might’ve very well have had to pay for with my life.”

Flint turned his face slightly toward him and curled his fists. Okay, that particular avenue wasn’t working.

“We can _use_ him. This doesn’t—”

In the span of seconds, Flint was on Silver, grabbing him by his neck and shoving him against the mattress.

Silver grabbed at the hand around his throat. “This doesn’t have to end badly for either of us!” he pleaded.

Flint added his other hand to Silver’s neck. Flint's face was flushed and his teeth were bared, like some wild animal. Silver tried to push Flint off of him with his legs but he was firmly straddling him.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Flint spat out through gritted teeth. “With your scheming and your batting eyelashes. Not a fucking clue of what you’re getting yourself into.”

Flint squeezed hard and Silver lost the feeling in his ears, his vision starting to swim.

“What are you gonna do? _Kill me_?” Silver managed to gasp out.

There was a flash of fear in Flint's green eyes as he blinked repeatedly, slack-jawed. Silver felt the grip on his neck relax. He thought of elbowing Flint’s nose, but then he remembered Flint was a military man.

He grabbed Silver’s arms and pinned them to his sides, digging large, bony fingers painfully into his pulse. The nausea hit him as the blood flow was cut off.

“Tell me what you want from here,” Flint growled.

Silver's brain supplied the most obvious answer. "You already know what he wants—Eleanor."

Flint narrowed his eyes, something like a snarl threatening to break from his lips. Silver felt on the verge of being devoured. He was surprised to realise, somewhere in the recesses of his brain, the notion was receiving a warm welcome by his libido. The distant twinge of arousal made his skin crawl.

He was about to plead some more, but Flint hauled himself off of him. Silver scrambled to his feet.

Flint started dressing, the tension in his pale muscles almost palpable. Still, Silver felt compelled to fill the charged silence between them.

"I've been running from him just as much as you have," Silver said, massaging his throat.

"I'm not running from Charles Vane," Flint said, with a tone of disgust.

Silver swallowed around the question of what he might be running from then.

Flint threw Silver's underwear at his face, who took it as his cue to finish dressing.

"If Vane wants Eleanor, I'll give him just that," Flint said.

"So we lie. Then what?" Silver asked, shoving his underwear in his back pocket.

Flint fixed him with a dark look. "There is no 'we'. _You_ tell him exactly what I'm about to tell you and disappear. From my life. From this city. From the fucking country."

Silver steeled himself. "No."

Not for the first time in their relationship, Flint looked taken aback by Silver's nerve. Then he edged forward.

"If you want to get Vane you'll need my help. I _know_ him," Silver argued.

Flint sneered. "I'm sure you do."

Silver risked a smile, shaking his head. Pettiness was not a good look on Flint. "I didn't go after you for him," he said.

Flint flicked his gaze to him.

"We were already… together, when he found me," Silver lied. He capped it off with a particularly mournful look.

"I don't give a fuck." Flint took out his phone.

"What are you doing?"

"Shut up."

Silver's gaze was drawn to a discarded used condom on the floor. He could still feel Flint on his body, in the distant ache of it. Well, now he was certainly beyond well fucked. He had to make himself useful to Flint again or he'd lose control over this whole situation.

"Eleanor isn't the only thing he was after,” Silver said. “There was something else, but he wouldn't tell me what. Something about a suit?"

Oh, that little morsel got Flint's attention. He seemed to ponder on the revelation, eyes calculating, before rounding the bed. He made to grab for Silver again, but he backed away quickly, hands in the air. "Hurting me won't help you. I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

Flint stopped abruptly.

"I want him gone as much as you do. I told you, he wants to kill me."

“Shocking." He studied Silver for a breathless moment. "Why?"

"Because I stole from him," Silver admitted.

Flint chuckled. "You stole from me, too, but I'm hardly up in arms about it."

Silver thought of the pen drive in his jacket's pocket and his stomach dropped. Despite Flint’s casual tone, Silver’s blood ran cold and he fought the urge to sprint for the door, as he waited for Flint to continue.

“Or did you think I wouldn’t notice the money that kept disappearing from my wallet?”

Silver was flooded with such relief that he simply shrugged. “It’s not like you don’t have plenty.”

Flint looked Silver up and down, and a cruel sneer took over his features. “I suppose one has to pay for services rendered.”

It wasn’t the words, but the overt vitriol, that unsettled Silver. The last ten minutes were hardly enough time to get accustomed to this new side of Flint—this dangerous, vicious creature, so focused on hurting him. Alas, Silver’s self-consciousness had died a fiery death a long time ago, and Flint was hardly the first—and unlikely to be the last—to call him a whore.

“Words hurt, Flint,” Silver deadpanned.

“Solicitation, fraud, theft... All of it before the ripe old age of twenty-one. Impressive,” Flint said with a condescending smile.

Silver’s jaw tightened but he shook it off, tilting his head and crossing his arms. “Is this the part where I pretend to be bashful? Or would you prefer contrite?”

Flint stood up straighter, clearly displeased with Silver’s slowly returning audacity. “Why would I trust a sewer rat like you?”

Rationally, Silver saw this for what it is was: Flint felt the need to lash out to assert his superiority over him, now that he realised he’d been made a fool of. It was a base and dull thing, waiting under the skin of most men. Silver had been on the receiving end of it a few times, when he was unfortunate enough to still be around after one of his marks had finally caught on. It was not easy to assuage, but there was an opportunity there to return to the status quo. To return the power that was stolen. After all, Flint hadn’t tried to kick him out yet.

“Because from that mighty high horse you can’t see the sewers.” Silver stepped forward, trying to further mask his tentativeness. “But I can.”

Flint quirked an eyebrow.

Silver let out an exasperated sigh. “What do you have to lose? It’s my neck on the line, not yours.”

Flint stepped further into Silver’s space, but Silver held his ground. “You expect me to believe that you’ll walk out of here to do to Vane the exact same thing you just did to _me_?” Flint growled, the volume of his voice rising with each word.

Silver’s heartbeat threatened to thrust his heart out through his mouth, but the rush of adrenaline had him walking that fine, intoxicating line between daring and reckless now. “Yes.”

(The thrill of the game was a drug.)

“Why would I?”

(All other emotion paled in comparison to it.)

“Because your interests and mine are aligned now, and that makes for excellent partners.” Silver swallowed hard and licked his lips, shifting toward Flint minutely. “And because I’m much more scared of you than I am of him.”

(It ruled him even as he denied it.)

He made it sound as less of an admission and more of a compliment. A bow. An offering. The dog baring his neck to the wolf.

(And as with any addict, he was foolish enough to pretend this temporary immortality was permanent.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than usual but it needed to stand alone.
> 
> My eternal love to [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com), multitasker extraordinaire.
> 
> Title from Going Nowhere by Fifth Harmony


	11. If there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where you place your bets

Silver sighed at the picture on his laptop screen. It was grainy and dark—taken with a webcam, in a poorly illuminated room. The single picture he’d found on the download drive.

There was Flint, shirtless, sitting in front of the camera. He had his face squished between two long hands, getting kissed by an equally shirtless man. The blond man in the picture Silver had found in the middle of the pages of Antony and Cleopatra. The ‘Lord’s son’. The big law suit. The very dead, Thomas Hamilton.

Bollocks to Jack.

¥¥¥

Patience was one of Miranda’s virtues. It wasn’t an easy virtue to come by, but her mother had taught her to cultivate it in the face of an increasingly impatient world.

Kneeling down on their garden, she considered her roses and hydrangeas. It was patience that made her garden flourish. It made her music teaching yield results. It made her persistence pay off. However, James always had been, by far, her greatest challenge.

He’d been prickly for weeks and refused to address the source of his latest discomfort. It was hardly difficult to surmise—she hadn’t heard of nor seen Mr. Silver of late, and any attempts to broach that particular subject had been met with hostility.

Regardless, she’d been steadily denying him any of the silent, physical comfort he was accustomed to receiving in these situations (so much so, that he’d discreetly started pressing her for it, unconsciously mimicking in some ways the new kitten, Dotty—after Cervantes’ character—much to Miranda's amusement) and waiting for him to disclose the problem. James had always externalised his feelings through physicality instead of trying to articulate them with words. (She recalled the day Thomas died; how James had raged and thrown things and clawed at himself. She’d tried to calm him but had only managed after he’d accidentally struck her across the face, the mortification temporarily suspending his railing.) But Miranda was feeling a bit unkind of late, subject to James’s British weather–like mood swings, so she was having none of it.

“Has Neptune been stuck in the house this whole time?”

Sitting on the garden table, reading, James tensed up. “He’s fine,” he replied.

Miranda cut off a thorny, dried up rose bud. “He’s had too many changes to his routine as it is.”

“And whose fault is that?” James shot back.

Miranda entertained the notion of giving James the fight he was itching for. After so many years, it was a dance they could conduct with their eyes closed, with proven—if somewhat gradually unsatisfying—results. The yelling, the apologising, the tender love making. A poor man’s catharsis. And exactly what James was so eagerly after.

She clapped loose the rich, dark earth from her gardening gloves and raised her gaze, bending down her blue wicker sunhat to fully face the sunlight.

“I wish you’d simply tell me what’s the matter, rather than sulk.”

“Miranda,” James warned, finally facing her.

She took a deep breath and got off her knees. “I can’t help you, if you won’t tell me what’s wrong.”

“I think you’ve done enough.”

Well, that was both confusing and predictable. Miranda tugged the dirty gloves off. “What are you talking about?”

Beside her, Neptune turned his head toward the kitchen. The confrontation was cut short by the doorbell.

James frowned at her.

“This is your house,” Miranda said.

After a moment of hesitation, James got up, and Neptune followed him through the kitchen.

 

Eleanor Guthrie should’ve disappeared from James’s life decades ago. She could die tomorrow, for all Miranda cared. Probably ought to. Her resurfacing never bore anything good for James, so apprehension gripped Miranda as she prepared tea for the woman sitting in their living room.

Eleanor was the closest thing to a daughter James had ever had, as well as a kindred spirit. She was intelligent and ambitious, and willing to go to great lengths to obtain what she wanted. She always seemed to bring out the worst in James. Together they were ruthless and callous, an embodiment of the worst facet of military life. Miranda had little appetite for their battlefield stories and their military intrigue. There was something between them she’d never been fully able to grasp: a version of themselves reflected in each other’s eyes that spurred them on; an unshakeable belief in one another. Something born out of surviving the horrors of combat together, undoubtedly. Miranda could not touch it nor shape it nor break it. Yes, it had tasted like jealousy for many years, but she now felt its true flavour: fear. Fear that she could not reach the man he was with Eleanor. Fear that he would lose himself to a path she could not retrieve him from. Always fear.

James entered the kitchen and lead Neptune out into the garden, closing the door.

“What is she doing here?” Miranda asked, foregoing any pretence of civility.

James avoided her gaze. “She’s visiting London.”

Miranda ground her teeth.

The kettle went off and James busied himself by taking over the tea making duties.

Miranda reached for his right bicep and squeezed. “What is going on, James?”

James’s countenance softened. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

Miranda exhaled deeply and shook her head. This would not do, not as things currently stood. James was too reckless, and whatever Eleanor was here to propose, it was bad enough that James wouldn’t share it with her.

She strode out of the kitchen. Behind her she could hear porcelain clattering, as James hurried to follow her.

Eleanor was sitting in their sofa, still wearing her leather biker jacket. Her expression remained a steady mask of determination and malcontent.

“What do you want here?” Miranda asked, hands on her hips.

Eleanor raised her eyebrows but remained otherwise still. She fixed her gaze on Miranda’s, briefly, before moving it to look past her.

“Miranda,” James called, tersely.

“Mrs. Hamilton, I’m here to visit my godfather,” Eleanor said. “If you have a problem with that, please don’t feel like you need to stay.” She gave Miranda a saccharine smile, then took off her jacket and leaned back on the sofa.

“Whatever you’ve come here to instigate, you can be certain I will not stand by while you drag James down with you. Again.”

To her credit, Eleanor actually managed to look outraged.

James came up from behind her. “Miranda, enough,” he said, close to her face. “We’ll discuss this later,” he gritted through his teeth, even as he held her elbow delicately.

Feeling herself unravelling in the face of both James’s stubbornness and dismissal, she reeled away from him to collect her bag.

“As you wish,” Miranda said, before marching to the front door.

As she got into her car, she dialled the number on her phone and turned on her bluetooth.

She had a few choice words for Richard Guthrie.

¥¥¥

It hadn’t been the world’s hardest job to get the pen drive decrypted. All it took was a quick call to Muldoon, and in a matter of hours Silver was going through Flint’s files. Bless Muldoon and his weed-affordable IT services. He hadn’t even wanted to look through it. Silver often wondered how much easier it would be to go through life as his friend did: content and placid, uninterested in other people’s treasures or insipid dramas. Silver hoarded them, like shiny pieces in his magpie pile.

Jack had lied to him; he had to know what Vane wanted with Flint. There was no way he hadn’t negotiated a cut of however much Vane stood to gain from this. That was the thing with Jack: he enjoyed enough congeniality with Silver, in his hunger for opportunity and his unrelenting curiosity (so often tied together), that Silver knew exactly what went on in his head. Reading through some of the figures involved in the Hamilton suit against the hospital, Silver knew that, were he in Jack’s shoes, he would be on it.

Why _wasn’t_ he on it? He could shake Jack hard enough (or rather Max could, by way of Anne) that some of that money would fall out, with Vane none the wiser.

And, if he was lucky enough, he could get Flint to dispose of Vane and his band of merry murderers. He certainly seemed keen. And just like that, his and Jack’s share would increase five-fold. And if the stars in motion aligned just right, all his problems would disappear.

And then, he’d disappear.

No more dingy flat. No more dreary London.

No more Vane. No more Flint.  

Freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, that only took forever! 
> 
> I am sorry it took forever, I am sorry it's not that long and I am sorry in advance if the next one takes a bit as well.
> 
> But we are reaching plot critical mass and my life is reaching some critical mass of its own, so doin' my best here. 
> 
> I'd like to thank my multi-talented, multi-tasker, tireless cheerleader, non-fandom member, editor and friend [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com), as always. <3
> 
> And also the fandom for their support and especially [Elle](http://ellelan.tumblr.com/), who is always there and never demands anything in return. 
> 
> And also [Reluming](http://reluming.tumblr.com/)/[Mapped](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mapped/pseuds/mapped) for reminding me that she wants to read this still :p
> 
> Title from Young God by Halsey


	12. The rumours are terrible and cruel but honey, most of them are true

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where patience is of the essence

It had been almost two weeks, and Flint had left Silver dangling on the edge of the precipice, waiting for instructions or a date or anything. He’s been drip-feeding Vane mostly-useless information, but soon enough the man’s already diminutive patience would run out. Something needed to happen before everyone had too much time to think it over and reassess their commitments.  

In a three-pronged offensive, him, Max, and Anne had plied Jack hard enough for him to consider that, should the rope break on Vane’s side on this, the best course of action for their little family unit was to cut their loses, grab what they could, and run.

Jack’s loyalty to Vane ran deep but not so deep as to endanger Anne’s well-being, and Silver was not above insinuating that said well-being might be indeed endangered by the possibility of Silver falling through the cracks on this one and Max finding herself bereft of her “brother from another mother” (Jack was so very fond of the use of dramatics, Silver couldn’t help but supplying them). Jack had stopped underestimating Max’s power over Anne a while ago and now tended to go in the opposite direction, vastly overestimating it, when compared to his own. Oh, the fragility of the male breeder ego.

Brotherly responsibilities agreed, all they needed now was the go from Flint. Which is why Silver was currently sitting in the stuffy, smaller than necessary office, trying to smile away the suspicious looks he was getting from the stocky, bald man sat at the reception desk. Silver fidgeted on the warm leather sofa.

Silver was never one for patience. And he figured he’d given Flint plenty of space for his bruised sensibilities to recover. Considering what Silver knew of Flint, if he had to guess (which he mostly didn’t), he’d say the effort to get over himself on this one would require a gargantuan effort from Flint, regardless of how much time went by. Silver snorted to himself. Flint was such a control freak, the very notion of something going on without his knowledge probably sent him off his rocker, let alone having been played by a “sewer rat” like Silver.

Still, he didn’t have time for this. The longer it went, the higher the stakes, and Silver was holding onto the loose ends on this one with all available limbs. He needed Flint to make up his mind. To give him something to work with. There was only so much Silver could whip up out of thin air.

Plus, he missed the man’s company. The challenge. The pushing of boundaries. The unfolding of the mystery. Most people bored Silver so very much. Dull, predictable things, with their barely disguised neuroses and meaningless squabbles and inconsequential drivel. There was nothing more exhilarating than consequences! To strike a true hammer and see the dent you made on the world; on someone else’s metal—some more pliable than others. Flint was so maddeningly unyielding, and Silver wanted to taste what it was like to bend that. Knowingly. Openly. And stand there over him, holding the tool that did it.

A new arrival from further into the office lumbered into the reception area. Blonde and gigantic, the newcomer looked at Silver and frowned. Silver smiled. The giant frowned further. Silver took a closer look at him and wondered what a bloke like that was doing here—his arms may as well have been as large as Silver’s thighs and he was a good head taller than Silver. He looked like a Roman gladiator had gotten into a three-piece suit by mistake.

His stance and walk gave him away, though. Military. Maybe even former Navy, like Flint.

There was a loud ring from the bald man’s desk. He picked up the phone, and the giant retreated into his office cave. There were a few tense affirmatives from the man on the phone. He settled the receiver and turned to look at Silver with a fake smile. “Mr. Flint will be a while. Perhaps you’d prefer to return a different day, Mr. Silver?”

Silver had been waiting for thirty minutes now, resigned to having to subject himself to Flint’s power play on this one but confident he’d eventually let him in. He sighed.

“I see. Mr. Gates, right? Would you be so kind as to inform Mr. Flint that it’s an urgent matter? Involving his god-daughter. Also could you tell him I have some of the... things he left at mine? I’d hate to have to leave those here with you.” Silver affected his most convincing blushing-bride look and put a protective hand over his leather messenger bag.

Mr. Gates took a deep breath, but his expression remained unimpressed. “I’ll be right with you,” he said, and took off into the next room.

Silver barely had time to contemplate the option of peeking through his desk before the giant was back, seemingly on guard duty. He gave Silver a small, sheepish smile, sat at the desk and made a poor job of pretending to be looking for something in the desk drawers.

Silver got up and strode toward the desk. “John Silver,” he said, extending a hand.

The blond giant stared at Silver’s hand for a few heartbeats, before shaking it a little too vigorously. “William Manderly”

Silver smiled. “Ah, the famous Billy!”

Billy gaped, adorably. “Wha?”

Their exchange was interrupted by muffled yelling coming from the office behind them. Other than an eyebrow rise, Billy showed very little surprise toward this new development. By the tone, Silver knew it wasn’t Flint so it had to be Mr. Gates. Well, that was interesting. Someone was also banging on something vigorously.

Silver snorted. “That happen a lot?” He shared a conspiratorial smile with Billy.

Billy’s frown and untrusting stare returned in full force. So much for Big Friendly Giant.

Gates re-appeared in the doorway. Silver was surprised; he’d half expected a door slam to announce the man’s impending arrival.

“Mr. Flint will see you now. Last door on the left,” Mr. Gates said, moving out of the way to let Silver through.

Silver smiled and strode triumphant past him. “Thanks.”

He meant to knock on the heavy, ornate oak door, as a peace offering, but thought better of it at the last minute and simply twisted the knob and entered.

Flint sat at his desk, scribbling on some papers with such intent Silver half-doubted it was put on. His imagination had supplied him with a Bond villain chair swivel, so this was... underwhelming. (He’d had some fantasies that involved Flint at his desk, busy conquering the justice system with stoic but ruthless efficiency and that constant scowl of his, while Silver… assisted).

“What do you want?” Flint asked, putting his pen down with care and making a point of turning over the papers in front of him.

“Hello to you too. How are you? I’m well, thanks so much.”

Flint intertwined his fingers over his lap and leaned back, unleashing an aura of indifference toward Silver that stung more than he liked. Over these last weeks, Silver had discovered that Flint’s dismissiveness was as powerful as his attention, and the replacement of that engulfing ocean with the dry and abrasive sand, after the receding tide, left even the stoutest of self-confidences reeling. Silver wasn’t used to feeling that loss, and the truth of it was left stewing in the back of his mind, waiting for him, after one too many glasses or tokes.

“What of Eleanor?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Silver crossed his arms.

Flint fixed him with a measured look but remained silent.

Silver tried holding his tongue for more than a cursory 15 seconds but it just wasn’t in him. The only way he could be quiet about some things was to direct his rhetoric to others, so silence was really of no use to him at all.

“We need to do something or Vane will have my arse,” Silver said.

Flint cocked and eyebrow.

Silver sighed and removed his bag, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor. “He’s getting suspicious,” he said, running a hand through his hair. He licked his lips and looked out the window behind Flint. “Manic” wasn’t exactly hard to convey when you’d barely slept in the last few weeks and had spent your days imagining all the terrifying ways in which your life could end at the hands of a deranged killer, but Silver was committing to character here. He moved closer to Flint’s desk and leaned on the side of it, using his arms for the best dramatic effect this side of Game of Thrones.

“Whatever you have in mind needs to happen soon or he’ll find some other way of getting what he wants,” Silver said, shaking his head minutely, eyes vague and facing the wall. Was that a painting of a ship? Bloody modern art.

In his peripheral vision, Flint leaned forward and started scribbling something again. He got up and moved around the desk; closer. Silver turned to look but felt Flint slip something into his jean pocket, making his gaze shift in that direction. Back up, he was met by Flint’s green eyes, and his cologne was suddenly all around Silver, smelling as tempting as he looked, travelling into Silver to ignite the spot where Flint’s hand still lingered. God, he was ridiculously easy.

I mean, all things considered, why not?

There were just about a million reasons, yes, but right now none of them held a match light to the combination of adrenaline and arousal travelling a million miles per hour under his skin, in his blood, in his bones. And yet that distant warning light at the end of the narrow corridor his mind had become kept flashing and flashing and flashing…

But now there was a large and steady hand on Silver’s hip and any reservations he had dissolved, along with the tension in his muscles. Most of them, anyway.

Flint moved behind him, circling, like a predator. The hairs on the back of Silver’s neck stood up, while he exhaled as discreetly as possible and tried to will his stiffening, not-too-proud-to-beg prick back into mollification.

Flint slid his hand over to the waistband of Silver’s jeans. He traced two fingers over the denim seams, over Silver’s skin, over the hairs travelling lower in his abdomen—just painfully short of Silver’s embarrassingly fast erection.

“Is this what you want?”, Flint said, the words a low growl that skipped Silver's ear completely and reverberated right into his hindbrain.

God, yes. This was just what the doctor ordered.

Silver braced himself on the desk in front of him, trying to keep his knees from buckling. In an effort to regain some control, he cleared his throat, swallowed and took a deep breath, hoping his voice would not betray him any more than the rest of him already was. “I’m just wondering where you and I stand in all this.”

Behind him, Flint leaned over and put his hands on top of Silver’s. And just like magic, Silver was bending forward and widening his stance. He couldn’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed. Was there such a thing as muscle memory for getting buggered? His body certainly seemed eager to get to what normally followed next: the feel of that familiar hardness rubbing behind him, against him. He waited for a few seconds, but it never came. Instead, Flint came up to his ear again.

“Keep wondering,” Flint said, in a very different tone, devoid of all the lush heat that had been filling up Silver’s trousers at an hallucinating pace. “Give that to Vane. He’ll know what it means.”

Silver shoved his hand in his pocket and fished out the Post-it. Flint had written down some kind of reference, a combination of letter and numbers.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Coordinates,” Flint explained. He leaned back in his chair, like a king bored with a particularly obtuse subject.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have returned! 
> 
> For reasons. 
> 
> *strides in triumphantly at the end of the party, confetti and plastic cups all over the floor*
> 
> I’m @parrotsinlondon on Tumblr

**Author's Note:**

> This is an exercise in processing. 
> 
> I want to thank my dear beta/editor and friend [Linz](http://linzorz.tumblr.com). You've taught me more than you'll ever know. I wouldn't be writing again if it weren't for you. Are you proud of me now?? 
> 
> And also [ellelan](http://ellelan.tumblr.com/) for her unabashed enthusiasm!
> 
> Title is a quote from the movie Feast of Love
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome and appreciated :)


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